


On Far Horizons

by inquisitorsmabari



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Dorian/inquisitor(minor), Dorks in Love, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Inquisitor (Dragon Age) is not the Protagonist, Long-Distance Relationship, Mutual Pining, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Tags will be added, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-01-16 11:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 149,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21270431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitorsmabari/pseuds/inquisitorsmabari
Summary: In those moments of darkness, we found one another...When the Conclave between the mages and the Templars is called, Bann Ferdinand of Ostwick sends his eldest son to represent the family, and Ostwick, at these talks. But when they hear of a tragedy of untold proportions unfolding in its midst, his daughter, Lady Amelie Hargrove, sets out to Ferelden to bring her brother home – dead or alive. When she arrives at Haven, she finds herself in a new world, one so different from her quaint life in Ostwick, and where the machinations of Corypheus, and her developing affections towards the Inquisition's commander, threaten to change her life, her family, and her world, forever.





	1. The Lone Rider

The sky burned.

Through the towering windows of the home of Bann Ferdinand of Ostwick , grey clouds marred a crimson sky that almost seemed otherworldly. Some may have said it was beautiful. But, to Amelie, it was harsh, and cruel, and all she wanted to do was go back up to her room, shut her eyes, and go to sleep.

The mornings had always been cruel to her. She had been told that she would grow out of it one day, that, once she grew up, she would revel in the opportunity to wake with the dawning of the sun. But, at 27 years of age, she was still waiting for that moment to arrive.

She hated mornings, but she hated them even more when she stayed with her parents.

All she could do was long for her own bed, her own food, her own servants– although they probably welcomed the time off. But she could thank the Maker that she had Ashlen with her, at least. After all, someone had to be around to do her hair and dress Adelaide.

So while the sky outside burned, so did she, her frustration, her fatigue, her impatience, raging inside of her.

Maker, she was tired...

“So, Amelie, this other man that Mother was telling me about…” Claudette had hardly paused to draw breath since Amelie had sat down next to her this morning, and it didn’t look as if she was about to stop anytime soon. Her fingers were busy twisting her chestnut brown hair into tiny coils, while she watched the world outside of the windows.

The sun burned a brilliant shade of gold in her hazel-green eyes, and the smile that was permanently fixed upon her lips added to her glow. 

“Apparently he owns land in Tantervale,” she continued. “Although she did have some concerns about where his money had come from. His family don’t have a very old bloodline, see…”

Her smile was sweet, and her eyes shone with all of the dreams of a young woman about to embark on the next stage in her life.

Amelie had had similar dreams once.

“...but besides from that, she said he’s a very handsome young man, and he seemed very interested in a potential marriage–”

“Wait!”

Her dream filled ramble was cut short by a shrill cry.

“Are you getting married?” Adelaide had abandoned the toast she was never going to eat – she didn’t like the crusts – and interrupted Claudette’s speech with a frown upon her sweet, freckle covered face.

Her grey eyes were curious as they fell upon her aunt, and Amelie sighed in exasperation.

"Well, I will be one day, yes," Claudette answered with her smile as sweet as ever.

"When?"

"Well...it will be when we've found someone who wants to marry me," Claudette explained delicately, with a sweet smile undermined by a vacant look in her eye. 

"So you don't know who you're going to marry?" Adelaide asked her with her lips forming a tiny pout as she flicked her frizzy mass of red hair behind her shoulders. “Why would you marry someone you don't know? What if he’s horrible? Or smells? Or..." 

“Well…”

“Because it’s her duty, Adelaide,” Amelie said without even stopping for breath. It was so easy to say, a phrase she had heard so often spoken by her mother, mostly. But part of her still hated it, and it was a part of her that she tried so hard not to make known. “I had to do the same, and you will too one day. It’s what we do.”

“But why?” It was a simple question, really. It was one she should have been able to answer. After all, she had asked her mother the exact same question many years ago.

_Why?_

But she had long since stopped asking. There was no point in asking why things were as they were. They simply...were. Argument was pointless.

So she had no answer for Adelaide, except for the one her mother had uttered to her long ago. “Because that’s just the way things are.”

She hated that phrase just as much now as she had back then. The difference was that Adelaide didn’t accept such answers. She had a fighting spirit in her that Amelie had long since lost.

“But–”

“Oh, Amelie, I see you’ve managed to get yourself out of bed at a reasonable time this morning!” Mother’s shrill voice cut through Adelaide’s protestations, and Amelie breathed a sigh of relief even as she found herself at the receiving end of her mother’s snark. But she was used to it by now, she never expected any different. “Has the post been delivered yet?”

It was the same question she had asked her every morning for the past two weeks.

“Yes, and it was all for Father,” she said with a sigh. “Nothing for you.”

“You’re sure?” 

“Yes, I gave them to him myself,” she told her, sharing an exasperated look with Claudette as she did so. “There was nothing for you this morning.”

“Oh Maker’s sake!” she cursed with a flick of her faded red hair and a roll of her eyes. “I’m going to have words with your brother when he gets home! Two weeks he’s been gone, and he hasn’t written to me once!”

“Maybe he’s just busy?” Claudette offered, but it fell upon deaf ears.

“Honestly I don’t know how Jennifer puts up with him…” 

“Well maybe he’s been writing to her instead? She is his wife, after all...” Amelie suggested as she watched her mother pace around the room with a scowl on her face.

“I doubt it!” Mother’s scowl only intensified as her pacing came to an abrupt halt. “Besides, he promised he would write to me so I’d know he was safe!” She turned to leave the room, muttering under breath as she did so. “Maker’s sake...that boy…”

They were left to sit in an uncomfortable silence. That is, until Claudette leant over to whisper in her ear.

“Honestly, she wouldn’t be so worked up if it was one of us…” she muttered, affirming Amelie’s own thoughts on their mother’s rant. “Maybe we should have gone to this Conclave instead, then she wouldn’t be so bothered and, if anything happened–”

“We’d be utterly useless,” Amelie reminded her, noting that Adelaide was listening in beside her. “He knows how to use a sword, he can look after himself. And he _is_ more important than us–”

“He _thinks_ he is,” Claudette said with a roll of her eyes, while Adelaide giggled under her breath.

“He’s the firstborn son so yes, he is,” Amelie said with a shrug. “He’s our father’s heir, and his only son. That automatically makes him more important than us and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“But why–” Adelaide began, and Amelie could feel the heat rising in the back of her neck.

“Adelaide…”

“She has a point, Amelie! It’s so ridiculous! I mean, Andraste was a woman,” Claudette said in agreement, and Amelie saw the awe in Adelaide’s eyes as she received her aunt’s praise.

She never looked at Amelie like that.

She sighed heavily, pushing those thoughts to the back of her head, as she always had done. “And she is known as ‘the bride of the Maker’, Claudette. If even the blessed Andraste wasn’t able to escape the shackles of the men in her life, then neither will we.”

Adelaide looked distant, confused. But Claudette’s face fell, and her eyes took on a knowing look, one which she had seen in the face of practically every noble woman she had come across.

Silence reigned in her parents dining room. Because she had been right, and no one save for Adelaide had the energy to fight it.

It was best that they accept it, and move on. That was what she had always been taught. Keep your head down, don’t question it.

It was never worth it.

“Anyway, what were you going to do today, Claudette?”

“Well, Mother’s going to have some new dresses made for me. So someone is coming to measure up for those,” she told her with a grin, as if their previous conversation had never happened. But of course she was trying on dresses, their mother would never let them meet potential husbands in old clothes.

“Oh, and she said she was thinking of ordering some for you too!”

A chill seeped into Amelie’s bones, so much so that her eyes drifted towards the window to see if it had been left open. It hadn’t.

“For...me…?”

“Yes! We can try fabrics out together. Won’t that be fun?” Claudette practically squealed with delight, whilst Adelaide turned to her with an equally radiant grin. 

Amelie, meanwhile, fought to conjure up a smile. “Yes, that will be very fun.”

There was only one reason their mother would be ordering dresses for the both of them. 

Her stomach churned. She cast an eye over at Adelaide, who appeared to have no idea what was going on but was enjoying the excitement anyway. Then she looked down at her left hand, where a collection of rings used to sit in all of their splendour.

_Not again_…

“Can I have a new dress too?” Adelaide asked her with a sweet smile that almost quelled the dread within her heart. 

“Maybe,” she told her with a fleeting smile, while her eyes drifted over towards the window, where the red veil had lifted, replaced instead by a mire of grey cloud. It was going to be a rather unpleasant day, it seemed.

“Oh that will be nice!” Claudette beamed, causing Adelaide to smile with glee.

Amelie, meanwhile, felt her smile fading. She didn’t want a new dress. She didn’t want to be made up with elaborate hairstyles, or told to sit upright, or told to smile politely and make conversation about the terrible weather that Ostwick had been subjected to of late. 

She thought she was safe from it all. She had had her turn at marriage, back when she was Claudette’s age, and her eyes had been filled with just as much hope and optimism as her sister exhibited now.

She had never even stopped to think that, one day, Amelie’s turn would come again.

It was a seemingly endless cycle for those ladies who were lucky enough to be noble born. For a short while, they would be free of the trappings of a man’s influence. But then it would start all over again.

She thought that the Maker had set her free when her husband had died after only four years of marriage. How foolish she had been...

“Are you coming too?” Adelaide’s sweet voice pierced her bitter thoughts, and Amelie suddenly found herself back in the dining room, which had darkened somewhat with the presence of a thick layer of grey cloud that covered the morning sun. 

She turned to her with a forced smile. “Sorry, where?”

“Outside! We’re going to play pirates, and I’m going to be the Pirate Queen!” 

Amelie looked over at her as she fought to hold back a laugh of disbelief. “Adelaide, there’s no such thing as pirate queens…”

“Oh don’t be so boring!” Claudette rolled her eyes at her, then turned to Adelaide with an excited grin. “Now are you coming or not?”

“I…” she paused for a moment, looking between her daughter’s excited grey eyes, and those of her sister. She sighed, and visibly shrunk away, closing in upon herself as she leant back in her chair. “No, I’ll stay here.”

“Alright,” Claudette said with a shrug, and without the faintest hint of surprise. “Come on then, Your Majesty!”

Adelaide launched herself off of her chair, abandoning the toast she hadn’t even touched. 

“Wait!” Amelie cried, and the two of them stopped in their tracks. “You haven’t eaten any of your breakfast!”

“Well I couldn’t,” Adelaide turned to her with her eyes wide in the perfect expression of innocence. “They hadn’t taken the crusts off.”

“Then I’ll take them off for you,” she offered, but that had never been enough to convince her, and it certainly wasn’t now.

“It’s not the same!” Adelaide protested with an argument she had heard a hundred times before. In fact, they had had this exact same conversation a hundred times before. 

But today, she just wasn’t in the mood to play this game.

“Alright, fine…” she sighed, and Adelaide grinned with satisfaction. “Go and play pirates with your aunt.”

“Pirate _queens_,” she corrected her pointedly, throwing her a smug grin as she turned on her heel and followed her aunt out of the dining room with their hands clasped together.

She was alone in the dining room. Her eyes drifted over to the window, the grey clouds that had mustered over Ostwick. Raindrops had begun to splatter against the windows.

Adelaide was going to get soaked to the bone if she went outside.

_Should she go after her?_

No, she would only be disappointed that her mother had come to ruin her fun. Unlike herself, Adelaide had never worried about being wet, or muddy, or cold.

She sometimes wondered whether they really were mother and daughter.

She breathed a heavy sigh, and reached out to eat the last pieces of her toast. They’d gone cold. But then again, she had somewhat lost her appetite.

She threw them back down onto the plate and slumped into another sigh. 

She had never been one to question her lot in life. After all, she was one of the lucky ones. The eldest daughter of Bann Ferdinand of Ostwick was fully aware of just how privileged she was. She had grown up with the best of everything: food, clothes, education, and the best chances in life that her father’s fortune could buy. She had been lucky too that she had married a man of such great wealth that, when he died, she was left with an estate and a yearly income that could keep her going for the rest of her days.

But, now, his death may have put her in an even more difficult position. Her brother had always said that there were no limits to their father’s ambition, but then he had always been more critical of him for a reason she couldn’t understand. But if that was the case, then perhaps her father had thought of marrying her off again. Perhaps a favourable alliance had been presented in front of him, at the cost of her new found freedom.

She watched as the raindrops trickled down the window pane, and listened to them patter gently against the walls of her parent’s home. Then, she closed her eyes, shut out the world. She felt calm, at peace. It was a brief respite from the world around her, from her life. For a few seconds, she could forget who she was, forget the responsibilities of Lady Amelie Hargrove and imagine that she was far from this place, on an adventure like the ones that Adelaide pretended to have. Somewhere else, far away from here, from this life, from the people who wanted to control her, to take away her freedom.

She opened her eyes, and that dream faded.

Nothing had changed. The toast on her daughter’s plate was untouched. The dining room was empty. Rain splashed against the windows of her parent’s home.

But she saw something else outside that window too; a figure on the far horizon, moving at some speed down the long driveway that cut through acres upon acres of lush green grass.

Amelie rose to her feet and marched towards the window, peering through the trickling cascade of rainwater at the figure that approached. They were too far away still, but she could make out the outline of a long flowing dress, that billowed alongside the towering figure of a bay horse.

The horse seemed far too big for her.

“Mother!” she cried as she shot out of the room, heading across the hallway with its bitingly cold stone floors and into the living room that was her mother’s favourite, with such a favourable view of the driveway that she could sit there and watch everyone’s business like a hawk watching its prey. 

Annoyingly, she had decided to read instead on this morning.

“Someone’s coming down the driveway,” she announced as she entered the room and peered out of the window, her mother sat on the chair beside her with her nose hidden in her book. “Who do you think it is?”

“How should I know?” she asked without even acknowledging her presence, “It’s probably just the seamstress, although she said she wouldn’t be here until this afternoon.”

“It isn’t the seamstress, Mother,” she told her, which earned her a disapproving glare that peered at her from above the spine of her book. “Well see for yourself! The seamstress would journey by carriage, not horseback. Wouldn’t they?”

Her mother turned towards her with a sharp glare, then she all but threw her book onto the table beside her and shot out of her chair, turning towards the window with her hands clasped against the glass.

“Amelie, that’s your brother’s horse! That’s Ellie!” Mother’s frown had twisted into an overexcited smile as she pulled away from the window and immediately rushed towards the door into the hallway.

“Mother… that’s clearly not him...” she said with a sigh. “Unless he’s grown his hair and taken to wearing dresses.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be too shocked if he did to be honest,” her mother said with a shrug, but she came over to the window and peeped out of the glass all the same.

“Mother that is so rude!” she chastised her with her mouth open wide in horror. Maker, her mother was a piece of work. “Just because he isn’t...just because…” she fell away from the window as she struggled to find the words. “You shouldn’t be so rude about him.”

“It’s not rude, it’s true,” she shrugged. “And I don’t think your father sending him to that all boys school helped, either. I’m surprised he didn’t end up fancying one of the other boys.”

“Mother that’s really awful!” she cried out in protest, but her objections, as always, were never heard.

“Oh well that’s definitely Ellie…” she said, murmuring against the glass with her nose pressed firmly against it. “Well, maybe Jennifer has come over. Maybe...maybe she’s heard from him!”

“Mother…” her protest fell flat once again as her mother whirled away from the glass and rushed out into the hall.

All Amelie could do was follow her.

It wasn’t long until her mother’s suspicions had been confirmed. It wasn’t long until the doors were opened and Jennifer rushed into the hall with her blonde hair dripping with rainwater that poured down her face and trickled down the skirts of her mud stained dress.

She didn’t answer their greeting. She said nothing. She stood with her mouth agape as she struggled to catch her breath. Then, silently, she pulled a damp letter out of the inner pocket of her overcoat with shaking hands.

It fell to the floor near Amelie’s feet.

She reached out and plucked the damp parchment off of the floor. That was when Jennifer spoke.

“It’s from Ferelden. From the Conclave,” was all she said. But there was a catch in her voice as she did so, an inflection that caused Amelie’s stomach to illicit a pang of dread. Suddenly, this letter felt as heavy as a block of iron, and her heart felt equally as such.

Suddenly, her mother’s worries didn’t seem to be so obscene.

She opened the letter, but made no move to read it out loud. She was grateful that she hadn’t. 

How could she read those words aloud? How could she bring herself to say those words?

All she could do was turn to her mother with tears in her eyes, and a pain in her heart that she thought would never heal.

The letter fell to the floor once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone just a quick note to you all (new or not): I'm not setting aside a day for uploading these chapters so they will be sporadic, with roughly one or two weeks between updates. This is just to take the pressure off of myself and allow for life getting busy etc, just to ensure that I am happy and that the chapters remain at a good enough quality.
> 
> So if you were intrigued by this chapter and want to see more, sub to updates or follow me on twitter @inqsmabari.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments (nice ones, no negativity or critical feedback needed please!) are always welcome on my fics and I look forward to taking this journey with you all.


	2. On the Farthest Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angry storm of otherworldly green brews in the skies above Ferelden. With that, and the letter from her sister-in-law in hand, there is only one assumption that Amelie can make as to the fate of her brother, and that leaves her with a very difficult task to undertake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for grief and discussions of death

_They say no one survived_.

The letter had been clear.

_No one._

That meant that the only son of Bann Ferdinand of Ostwick, her brother, had died from what appeared to be a magical explosion at the Conclave in Ferelden.

_I am sorry for your loss, sweetheart_. _I know how hard this must be to hear._

Those tears in her eyes could not be allowed to fall.

But...

“How credible is this?” Her mother had rounded upon Jennifer with a fierce intensity in her emerald green eyes that made Jennifer’s rain soaked face cower away in fear. “Who sent this to you? How do you know that this isn’t–”

“My father has been in Denerim, observing all of this from afar,” she began to explain, but as always, Amelie’s mother was loathe to let anyone else have their say.

“So you come to me with gossip? Of this nature, no less?” Mother’s cry was bitter and cruel, but Amelie could see that her eyes were dry, and unshaking. After all, she had always said that a lady dared not cry, dared not show any hint of emotion, dared not make herself so vulnerable. People would always take advantage of a vulnerable woman, she had always told her.

“Are you calling my father a liar?” Jennifer spat back at her. Maker, how could they both argue at a time like this? “Where have you been, Corrine? Have you not seen what’s out there?”

Amelie’s grief was placed on hold, and she turned to Jennifer with her brows furrowed as she pondered her words.

What _was_ out there? Should she have known what she was talking about?

“What are you talking about?” Her mother scoffed with a roll of her eyes, looking as confused as Amelie felt.

“Out there! The storm!” Jennifer pointed towards the open door behind her, where the rain had seemed to have grown angrier as it splashed against the the gravel outside with a ferocious roar. “Go! Go out there and look! And _then_ come back here and call my father a liar, I dare you!”

Her mother scoffed again. She didn’t move, only stood with her arms folded, and her eyes fixed firmly on the floor beneath her feet. Stubborn, proud, or unwilling to subject herself to the realities of what may have happened. After all, if Jennifer was right about this storm, then there would be little room left for doubt.

So she took her mother’s place. She took one step towards the door, then another, her feet crossing in front of each other again and again until she reached the front door.

She turned. Her mother was standing in the same spot as before. Jennifer stood in front of her, watching her; her eyes were vacant and lost. Not grief stricken, or filled with tears, only lost. 

She would have expected something more, perhaps, particularly from a woman who felt everything so strongly, who was so quick to let her emotions overcome her. But everyone grieved in different ways.

Amelie wasn’t sure how she herself dealt with grief. She wasn’t sure what she was even feeling right now.

She turned away, back towards the large doors at the entrance to her parent’s home, staring once again at that relentless onslaught of rain. She slipped her feet into a pair of boots, one foot after another, and without bothering to grab a coat, stepped out into the world outside.

It was grey, and bleak. Rain poured viciously down onto her head and trickled down her long locks of red hair. A shiver ran down her spine as she looked out towards the driveway that Jennifer had so desperately ridden down to deliver her message.

Could it be true? A magical explosion, that was what the letter had said. Jennifer had called it a storm. That was more likely. The alternative sounded too much like something out of a work of fiction, something so fantastical that it only happened in adventure books, or tales told by the fire.

It was the kind of story that Adelaide would conjure up, something she would play in the garden with her Aunt Claudette.

Perhaps her mother was right; it couldn’t be real.

There was only one way to find out. Except she didn’t want to. 

She didn’t really expect to see anything. After all, what could there possibly be for her to see? It was all so...ridiculous.

But what if she did see something? What if Jennifer was right?

She didn’t want her to be. Maker, she wanted her to be everything _but_ right. If only she could be as determined as her mother on this…

But then she never was.

Her eyes closed, and she found herself holding a breath as she turned herself back towards her parents home, towards the south. When she opened them, she expected to see a grey sky, with rain cascading down towards her while the fabric of her dress became sodden with water.

That’s what she had expected. What she saw when she opened them was very different.

In the sky towards the south, around where she imagined Ferelden to be, the sky had turned green. It was a tiny ripple upon the far horizon, a small hint of green within grey sky that was marred by the heavy sheets of falling rain that hurtled towards her.

_No one survived_.

Was that it? Was that this...this magical explosion?

_No one survived._

It was real. It was there. Just as Jennifer had said it would be.

_No one survived._

What she saw in the southern sky was the distant cry of a rippling storm that plagued the skies above Ferelden, so large, and so intent on consuming all around it that, even from the safety of her parent’s home in Ostwick, she could see it churning, growing, swallowing the entire world whole.

She couldn’t watch. She couldn’t look. She turned away from the anger of that terrible storm, and she ran back into her parent’s home with rain dripping from her hair, her face, the skirts of her dress.

Water dripped down onto the stone floor beneath her feet, but she could not let any tears fall with them.

“I saw it last night,” Jennifer began, her narrowed eyes watching Amelie carefully, knowingly. She knew what she had seen out there, she knew what conclusions her mind had drawn. “Antony saw it, actually. He asked me what it was, I just told him it was a storm. Then I got that letter this morning and…” Her voice trailed off and, for a time, she was silent, distant, once again. “I had no idea that what he was looking at was, in fact, the very thing that killed his father–”

“He’s not–” she heard her mother say with a much quieter tone than before.

“There’s no point in being in denial about it,” Jennifer said with a sharp tone, cutting off her mother’s protestations almost instantly. “You can’t grieve if you won’t–”

“How can I?” her mother rounded on her once again, this time with visible tears streaming down her face to accompany her angry cries. “How can I grieve when I don’t even know what’s happened? When I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead?”

Amelie sighed. “Mother…”

“I would know if he was dead!” she insisted. “Surely...surely I would know…I would...I would feel something…I would know…”

Amelie shared a look with Jennifer, who looked more exhausted than she had before as she listened to her mother’s mutterings. 

Exhausted, dazed, vacant. There were no tears yet. But, beneath that mask, Amelie wandered what was going through her mind.

How did she feel, hearing of her husband’s death? It had been different for Amelie – it had been expected, he had been ill for a while, and the decline had been slow.

But this was sudden. It had come out of nowhere, like a knife to the throat from an unexpected assailant in the darkest corners of a terror filled city. It had come on the wings of a bird flown desperately from some window in Denerim, that had travelled all night to deliver the poison that was clamped within its claws.

It had certainly shaken Amelie. It was as if she had been swallowed up by some endless abyss, her body taken over by a numbness that brought with it a sense of peace, masking the pain that she would surely feel once all of this had sunk in.

Not that she would ever be allowed to feel it. Ladies didn't feel, didn't hurt, didn't cry.

And Jennifer was being the very picture of a noble lady. No tears fell from her eyes today. 

Amelie, meanwhile, had retreated behind that picture perfect mask into the cavernous depths of her desperate mind. She had too many questions.

What in the name of the Maker was that storm? What had happened? Why?

Why did he even have to go to Ferelden in the first place? This mage/templar conflict, it was nothing to do with them.

Why did he have to go?

The mask could have slipped then, but it didn’t. Her father made sure of that.

“What are you all doing?” Amelie’s father had marched down the stairs without her even noticing, but she couldn’t fail to notice that deep booming voice as he announced himself. It was enough to distract her from her spiralling thoughts. “Why are you all standing here getting my floor wet?”

He was answered with a deafening silence, punctured only by the sound of the rain hammering against the old stone walls.

No one wanted to answer. 

Jennifer looked at the floor. Her mother looked away. Only Amelie caught her father’s gaze, and she could see the impatience building behind his eyes. 

With a sigh, she relented, and strode over to pick up the letter from the place she had abandoned it.

It was never very good to let him wait. 

It felt heavier than it had done before; it took a good degree of effort to prise it off of the cold stone floor, where she had left it what felt like a lifetime ago. It was far easier to pass it into her father’s hand, relieve herself of the burden of having to read those words again.

Instead, she tried to read his face, as did they all. They all watched him as his eyes moved across the page, waiting for the hint of an emotion.

His face had never been very readable, his mask unflinching.

When he was finished, he simply folded up the letter and placed it into his pocket.

“Your father sent you this?” Jennifer was called to attention to by his careful, measured words.

“Yes, he’s in Denerim right now,” she told him. “He must have sent it yesterday evening.”

Amelie watched her father, as did her mother, their eyes fixated upon every movement, every breath, every flicker of his eyes and every clench of his jaw. No one spoke.

Outside, the wind howled, and with it cam a splattering of rain against the walls of her parent’s home.

It seemed as if a storm had come for them, too. 

“Well, it seems ridiculous. But, if it’s true, then someone has to go and get him,” her father said finally, folding up the letter as he did so and placing it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“My father doesn’t lie–”

“I know that,” he told her sharply. 

Her mother looked hurt, betrayed. “Surely you don’t believe–” 

“Corrine!” his tone was sharp, and it silenced Amelie’s mother within a second. “Look, whether this letter tells the truth is irrelevant. Dead or alive, someone has to go and get him. I don’t trust him to make his own way home and, well, if he _is_ dead, then I’m not having the remains of my only son thrown into a pit beneath some barbaric Ferelden village.”

All of them fell silent. The image was...sickening, distressing.

But, Maker, he was right. Someone had to go, someone had to deal with this mess.

“Amelie, I want you to pack your things and go to Ferelden,” he said finally, and Amelie all but jumped out of her skin at the mention of her name.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” he said flatly. “I’ll have a carriage prepared for you, and arrange a ship to carry you–”

“No!” Amelie turned to Jennifer in horror, shocked to hear her interrupt her father, of all people. No one interrupted Ferdinand Trevelyan, except for those few times her husband had tried.

It had never worked out very well.

“Excuse me?”

“I should go,” she continued in spite of the seething anger within his eyes. 

Amelie sighed with relief, but it was short lived. After all, how could she let her go? How could she let her carry this burden on her own? How could she let her go all of that way, leaving her children behind?

No, she couldn’t.

She looked at her mother. She couldn’t go, she was too fragile, although she didn’t look it. Her mask was intact. 

Ladies didn't feel pain. They had to go to great lengths to hide it.

But the clue was in her persistent denial; Amelie knew that it was her deflection, her distraction, her faintest glimmer of hope.

She had to go. She had to do this for all of their sakes. She had to go, for Jennifer, her mother, perhaps even herself.

She had to find out what had happened. She had to bring her brother home.

“No, I’ll go,” she said finally, earning her a series of confused stares from around the room. 

“But–”

“No, Jennifer!” she insisted and, to her surprise, she listened. “I’ll go to Haven, I’ll see what happened, and I’ll write to you all as soon as I find out.” 

She looked around the hall. Her mother looked hopeful, her eyes wide as she almost managed to conjure a smile in Amelie’s direction. Her father looked satisfied, standing with his arms folded across his chest with a blank look upon his face. 

Jennifer, however, was still not convinced.

“Jen, you haven’t told the boys, have you?” she asked her quietly.

“No, not yet. I came straight here.”

“Good, don’t tell them yet,” she told her. “You heard what my mother said–”

“My father doesn’t–”

“I know! But what if he was...mistaken? There’d be no point in upsetting them only for them to find out it wasn’t true.” Jennifer squirmed beneath her gaze, but Amelie knew that her words had begun to sink in. “And, if it is, then they’re going to need you to be there.”

Those were the words that made her retreat, the ones that made her back away, and sigh in defeat.

“You’re right,” she said with a hint of melancholy as she drew a hand up to her face to brush her loose strands of blonde hair behind her ear. “Maybe...I could look after Adelaide for you while you’re gone, if you wanted?”

Amelie caught her gaze. She was visibly shaken, now, that mask having slipped ever so slightly. She was tired, and stressed, and worn down by everything that had happened. But, beyond that, Amelie could see that same knowing look that she herself was projecting.

They had both seen with their own eyes what lingered above the skies in Ferelden. They both knew now what the weeks of silence leading up to this had meant.

So perhaps Jennifer knew that, when Amelie had agreed to go to Haven to find him, she was also agreeing to save her the pain of having to find him in whatever state he had been left in. That she was also agreeing to let her see it filtered through the lens of a scribbling of words on parchment. That she was agreeing to save herself, and her children, that pain.

But if all of this was true, if the letter had been correct, then Amelie was now the eldest child. This was her duty now, to do what she had to do for her family, for all of them.

It was her duty to pack her things and leave her parents home, saying goodbye to a bemused Adelaide, who had no idea what had just transpired while she so innocently played pirates with her aunt, and therefore could not understand why she couldn’t come to Ferelden with her. 

An adventure, just like she had always wanted. Claudette, too, who seemed astounded, even jealous, that Amelie had been given such an opportunity.

Perhaps they would tell Claudette what really happened once they had all left. Perhaps not. She wouldn’t know until she returned, and that wouldn't be for some time. It was a long journey to Ferelden, after all.

Duty drove her forward. Duty drove her on her way as she left the house, her family her daughter, behind her, and set herself upon the path that led to Ferelden, to Haven, to her brother, whether he be dead or alive.

Duty drove her to discover the fate of her brother, at whatever cost.

Duty drove her forward, just as it always had. But in the back of her mind, the same words repeated themselves over and over again, and they clouded over her, shielded her from any hope of the optimism that her mother had so innocently held.

_They say no one survived._

She remembered what that letter had said so clearly, the words that had been so delicately scribed onto the page were now etched into her memory. Now, she was about to find out just how true they were


	3. Into the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie journeys to the village of Haven, where many lost souls have gathered in search of those they’ve lost. But when she arrives at the base of the mountain, she begins to hear rumours of a lone survivor known as the Herald of Andraste. But how did anyone survive? And who is the Herald of Andraste?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning, as last time, mentions of grief and death.

On the edge of civilisation, just off of the Imperial Highway on the west side of Lake Calenhad, there lay an inn. It sat amongst a small cluster of houses that clung to the edge of a river which meandered into the lake beyond. It sat in the middle of nowhere, and yet it was filled to the brim with people from all walks of life, who laughed and jeered and drank while a cold wind tore its way down from the mountains.

This was the final stop on Amelie’s journey. It seemed as if it was the final stop on many other people’s journeys too. She wondered if the others had come here for the same reason.

Had they lost family to that...thing too? It brewed above the peak of the mountains, all but obscured by those who stood at the foot of the mountain path. But even from here, she could see how angry it looked, how violent. 

She could see why nobody had survived. For an explosion to leave that much of a dent upon the sky above it, even after all of these weeks.

It was frightening. It was harrowing. It was almost unreal.

She stood outside of the inn at the foot of the mountains, and watched as people swarmed past in every direction. Very few were coming down from the mountain with the setting sun lighting their path. Others raced towards the inn looking for respite from the cold before they made that journey. Some brave souls stopped briefly at the bottom of the mountain path, taking one large breath before they began their ascent up the mountain, hoping to beat the crowds by travelling in the dead of night.

She would not be one of them today. There was no way she had the nerve to travel at night, let alone up a slippery mountain path in the darkness, with nothing but her riding boots to stop her from tumbling all the way back down again. 

Instead, she breathed in the bitter cold Ferelden air, and let it calm her anxious mind.

Travelling was not her forte. Had it not been so important, had her father not insisted, she would not have come. But no one questioned her father’s will, and she couldn’t let Jennifer go through this.

What else could she have done?

While her stomach tightened itself into knots as she stared up at mountains that loomed above her head, she knew that she had to hold her nerve, she knew that she couldn't turn back now. The cloud of sickly green loomed from behind the mountains, leaving them all to bask in its horrifying glory, and she tried so hard to steel herself even as she stared into its frightful gaze.

So much depended on her making that climb, how could she lose her nerve now?

“Lady Amelie,” the sweet, sing-song, voice of her trusted servant called out to her from behind, where Amelie turned to find Ashlen shuffling towards her through the heaps of snow. “Your room is all ready for you! It’s going to be a cold night, so I asked them to light the fire and bring an extra blanket for you.”

“That’s very kind of you Ashlen, thank you,” she said with a smile. “You’re right about the cold, I can already feel it setting in. Perhaps you could show me up now before it gets even colder?"

“Of course. Right this way,” she said with a bow of her head as she turned back towards the door of the inn.

Amelie stayed close to Ashlen as she led her through the door of the inn, and she was glad she did. Never before had she seen such a variety of people before. There were drunkards and merrimakers, sitting around tables with tankards that were larger than her head. Then there were groups of people, some with the elderly or children, who looked just as out of place as she felt. There were even Chantry sisters caught in the chaos; most of them had frowns upon their faces, and they looked even more dour than usual. She couldn't imagine what had made them so miserable – perhaps it was the cold.

But it wasn't the cold. All of them uttered the same three words. Some of them cheered them over a raised glass, others spoke about them to their groups, either with a look of wonder, or one of disgust.

_“Herald of Andraste.”_

It was on everyone’s lips except her own. She had never heard of a ‘Herald of Andraste’ before. Curious, she found herself stopping in her tracks, causing someone to collide with her and swear loudly.

“My lady?” Ashlen called out to her from further ahead, where she appeared to have escaped from the heaviest parts of the crowd. 

“Sorry,” she said, both to her and to the person she had annoyed, before quickly catching up with her servant, who pushed her way through the crowd until it began to ebb, and the stairs to the second floor of the inn were in sight.

They climbed the stairs together and, below her, she could see how tightly packed the downstairs of the inn was. She couldn't believe she had come out of that alive.

What were so many people doing here? All of those merrimakers, what were they celebrating? How could they celebrate, when such a terrible event had taken place? She wondered again about those families: who were they here to see? Who had they lost?

She could imagine why the Chantry sisters were here – after all, the Divine had been attending the Conclave when it fell into chaos. But why did they all look so angry? And why were they talking of this Herald of Andraste, rather than the woman who they had served, who had lost her life too? 

Who, or what, was this Herald of Andraste?

“Your room is just here, Lady Amelie,” Ashlen told her, showing her into a room at the far end of the hall that was just big enough for the two of them to stand in. It had a double bed, at least. “And I’ve laid out your clothes for tomorrow, as you asked.”

“Black ones, yes?” she asked her. It was a simple question, but it stung. 

Mercifully, she dropped her gaze. Not that Amelie had anything to hide. Her mother had taught her well. "Yes, my lady."

"Good. Thank you," Amelie told her with a well practised smile, Ashlen dropped into a minute bow before turning to take her leave. But there was something else that Amelie wanted from her, something she wanted to know. "Wait!"

Ashlen paused, turning back around slowly to face her once again. She could sense some concern in her gaze."Yes, Lady Amelie?"

"Do you know what they were talking about down there?" She asked her, making an effort to highlight the indifference in her voice. She didn't want to admit how curious she was, how out of the loop she felt. "This 'Herald of Andraste'. Do you know what it means?"

She froze, startled, shaken. Then, her gaze fell. "Well, I heard some of them talking while I was sorting out your room…"

"Yes?" She asked her, while dread began to churn within her heart.

"They say...they say someone survived," she said hurriedly and, suddenly, Amelie knew why she had been so unwilling to answer. Her stomach tied itself into a thousand intricate knots, and her heart all but stopped beating. "Apparently it was a miracle, that Andraste herself saved them from the...from the explosion. They're calling them the Herald, the Herald of Andraste."

"Oh, I see," she said quietly, her eyes turning towards the crackling fire at the far end of the wall.

It burned, just as the Conclave had. Just as _he_ had.

Yet now they were saying that, somehow, someone had survived.

_What if…?_

No. She couldn’t let herself wonder ‘what if’. How many people had attended that Conclave? How many other sons and daughters, and brothers and sisters, had died in that explosion?

She had never been gifted with any miracles before, why would she presume to be now? 

"I'm sorry…"

"No, Ashlen, it's fine," she forced a smile onto her face with all of the energy she could muster. "I'm glad to hear it, actually. Somewhere, out there, there's a family who will soon be reunited with the one they thought they'd lost. That's very good to hear." 

She gave no response, only a sympathetic smile that, after more than two weeks on the road, she had grown weary of seeing from her trusted servant. She didn't need sympathy, nor did she want it. All she had to do was do her duty to her family, and bring her brother home.

_What if…? _

She closed the door as Ashlen hurried out, and darkness all but enveloped the cramped, musty room. Were it not for the light from the fire, and the two tall candles by her bedside, she wouldn't have been able to see the clothes that Ashlen had picked out for her.

Maybe that would have been a good thing.

Black, and layered with the warmest down, they'd been picked out specifically for this moment.

In those clothes, she would take the pilgrim's path up the mountain to Haven, to where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had once stood, and she would find out what had happened to her brother, and bring him home.

_What if…?_

No, she mustn't. There was no room for hope in her fragile heart. 

Her mother had taught her well. The mask had not yet slipped, she would not let it now.

Her chest tightened. Her breath hitched. But she did not falter.

She could not make room for hope. She had seen the remnants of this explosion looming above the mountains, growing ever larger as she travelled further into Ferelden.

Jennifer’s father had been right. How could anyone have survived that?

And yet, someone had. The Herald of Andraste.

Her mask almost slipped. She almost choked, almost fell to her knees as the tears in her eyes fell onto the floor beneath her feet. 

But it didn’t. She had been trained well. She didn’t lose her composure, didn’t fall to her knees, didn’t cry into the cold Ferelden night.

The mask stayed intact. 

But the questions in her mind remained.

Why did the Maker let this happen? How did someone survive? Why did Andraste only save one? 

Why did he even have to go? This wasn’t their fight, their struggle. They had nothing to do with the mage/templar war.

He could have stayed. Surely, he could have stayed.

Why had Father made him go?

_Why?_

Those questions replayed themselves over and over in her head again and again. They relayed themselves through her troubled mind even as she dragged herself into the bed and blew out the candles, letting herself lay back upon the scratchy bedsheets and stare up into the darkness above her head.

Night gathered about her. The cold set in. But in the darkness, there was the faintest hint of a green glow.

There was a flurry in her heart as she stared into the heart of the darkness, and she found herself screwing her eyes shut as all of her worries closed in around her.

Questions unending, unanswered, swam through her mind. Her eyes remained tightly shut, trying desperately hard to keep them out.

She searched her mind for something else, something to distract her.

A memory surfaced.

A child scared of the darkness, hiding behind a veil of red hair. Her brother coming to find her, telling her he was here to make her feel better, to keep her safe.

He had been scared of the dark too. But he never admitted it.

She had been seven, and he had been nine, the last time they had done so. It was the night before he had been sent off to school, for precisely that reason. No heir should be so weak as to be scared of the dark. No heir should be so weak as to rely on the comfort of his sister.

A bad influence, she had been. But she hadn’t understood. 

All she knew was that no one would be coming to make her feel safe when darkness fell.

No one was coming now. He had been taken from her again. This time, however, he wouldn’t be coming home.

All night, she dreamed of the next day, what might happen, what she might find up there at the peak of the Frostback Mountains. She woke covered in sweat even in spite of the bitter cold.

And when she did so, the first thing she laid eyes upon were the clothes that Ashlen had laid out to wear. A black coat that would be paired with a grey skirt, and hardy leather boots that would deliver her safely to her destination.

She would be warm, at least.

The last time she had worn those clothes had been when her grandfather had died. Before that, her husband. The difference was that those deaths had been somewhat ordinary, expected. Putting on mourning clothes had been something of a routine.

And it wasn’t like she had ever been close to her husband, anyway.

Now, she looked upon those clothes with dread. She could feel it seeping into her skin as Ashlen helped her to dress and, despite the layers upon layers that covered her pale skin, she felt colder than she ever had before.

She had hoped they would keep her warm, at least.

She hadn’t told her mother she’d packed her mourning clothes. After all, she had been content in her state of denial, clinging onto hope as if it were the only thing stopping her from plummeting into the abyss. Perhaps it was.

Amelie, however, had joined Jennifer in going headfirst down a spiralling descent into grief. It was best that way. Grief was something that she understood. She could forge a mask out of the pain she felt, and harden herself against it. 

But the uncertainty? The questions? They were much harder to work with, much harder to protect herself from.

And she could not let her mask slip.

She had a duty to her family, a task to fulfill.

That was all.

But there was a chink in her armour. Someone had survived. That was one thing she couldn’t have anticipated. But, like everything else, she had to push that to the back of her mind as Ashlen finished braiding her hair in the most elegant braids she had ever seen.

Her ascent drew ever nearer. She had to be ready.

There would be time to grieve later.

For now, all she could do was leave this room in the care of Ashlen, and take the pilgrim’s path to Haven. But she was not the only one taking that path this morning.

She hadn’t expected to be. After all, how many people had died in that Conclave, including the blessed Divine herself? She had expected to be only one of the many who undertook a solemn journey to find those they had lost. And there were those she saw who ascended the path dressed in a similar fashion to herself, with equally vacant expressions upon their faces. 

Mask upon their face. Some of them physical – Orlesians. It really was a strange world when Orlesians willingly visited Ferelden.

Then there were the rest of them.

They were loud, most all, talking in excited tones in large groups as they all swarmed up the mountain path around her. How they could sustain such a conversation baffled her. Not only was she too sick in the stomach to even consider engaging in excited conversation, she was exhausted from the effort of winding up the side of a sheer mountainside.

But they all did, and she heard that phrase on their lips once again.

_Herald of Andraste._

Hanging onto the sides of the path were Chanters, who tried, but failed, to shout above the din. One of them all but pulled Amelie aside to have their message be heard.

“He’s a heathen, a fraud,” she cried into her ear. “He killed the Divine!”

She pulled away rather viciously, tearing her arm from the woman’s firm grasp, and continued on her path.

What did she care for this Herald of Andraste? This survivor of the explosion? It was nothing to do with her, she wasn’t a pilgrim seeking to bask in his glory.

_“He’s a heathen, a fraud. He killed the Divine.”_

_He..._

No. She pushed on, her feet sinking further and further into the of snow as she climbed onwards and upwards while, above her, the circling storm of sickly green grew ever larger, and more menacing.

Looking at it now, as it churned and spat above her head, she couldn’t believe for a second that anyone could have survived that. Surely, all this talk of a Herald was no more than rumour, brought about by a desperate need for hope in such a trying time?

They certainly all needed it. As she reached the top of the mountain path, after climbing for so long that she had almost forgotten how it had felt to not be exhausted, she saw the scale of the horror.

In the far distance, something stood out against the glowing green storm that pulsed behind it, jutting against the pale blue skyline like an angry scar upon the surface of the mountain.

Ruins, from a temple that she imagined had once stood so proudly against the horizon.

It didn’t anymore. 

Above it, the storm brewed and churned.

Around her, at the entrance to the village of Haven, there were people with injuries from Maker knows where. Most of them were in armour. Then there were those who stood looking lost, confused. Many of them she had seen on the mountain path.

Some of them wept. Others scanned the area with curious, sometimes hopeful, eyes.

She ignored them all, instead searching for someone who appeared to have some authority over the chaotic sprawl of people that filled the mountain village. It wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be; she would have struggled to miss the booming voice of a tall woman in jet black armour, with a burning white eye emblazoned upon her chest.

“Excuse me,” the woman turned towards her. Beside her, a blonde man with a scowl on his face stood, watching. “I don’t know if you can help but...I had family at the Conclave–”

“Another one…” The blonde man muttered under his breath. It struck her how exasperated, how exhausted, he sounded. 

She was only one of many, she gathered. It was likely that they were all sick to death of people like her turning up to get in their way.

That was how he had made it sound, anyway.

“You’ll have to see Josephine, she’s been dealing with all of the nobles,” she was told with a sigh from the woman, who was at least a pinch more sympathetic than her companion. He didn’t speak to her again. “She will be outside the Chantry, just tell her your family name and she will check our list.”

“Oh...thank you,” she said, following the direction of her outstretched finger which pointed towards an open gate situated beyond a row of tents and a crowd of soldiers who practised with swords and shields. 

It hadn’t been as hard as she had thought, perhaps this wasn’t going to be so hard after all.

But as she left, she heard the man speak once again.

“It’s sad, isn’t it…” she heard him say with yet more exasperation in his tone.

And it was. It was sad.

But she didn’t have time to be sad. She had a job to do, a duty to perform.

Perhaps she had misunderstood his tone before...

Josephine was stood exactly where the woman had said she would be: outside of the Chantry with a list in hand, and a splattering of people dressed just as Amelie was. Some of them even looked as Amelie felt.

Desperate. Lonely. Scared.

But she couldn’t let that bother her. Not now.

“Welcome to Haven,” this Josephine said to her as Amelie eventually made her way to the front of the crowd, turning to her with warm brown eyes that helped to ease the cold that was biting at her hands and feet. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Perhaps, yes,” she said, taking a deep breathe in as she steadied herself for what was to come. “I had family who attended the Conclave, I’ve come here to...to find them.”

“I see. And what’s your family name?

“Trevelyan,”

Josephine froze with her quill hovering over her list. Then, slowly, her gaze rose to meet her own.

“Trevelyan?” 

Amelie nodded. “Yes.”

Josephine stood with her mouth agape for some time. Then, she lowered her clipboard. “Forgive me, but...have you not heard anything from us? From the Herald, at least?”

Her heart all but stopped beating. “No, we haven’t. That’s why I’m here.”

“Come with me,” Josephine ordered, grabbing her of her hand somewhat forcefully as she pushed her way through the crowd and marched towards the Chantry. “I should have written to you all myself! I should never have trusted him! Maker, I can’t even imagine how you all must have felt. What you’ve all been through...”

“I don’t understand...” she began, her heart beating faster than it ever had before as they marched through the doors of the Chantry, and entered a hall lit by hundreds of small candles.

Light flickered across the old stone walls. A conversation echoed from deep within, but it was drowned out by the thundering of Josephine’s determined footsteps and the cry of her shrill voice.

“Herald! You said YOU were going to write to them! You told ME not to worry about it! And now look what has happened...”

Josephine was fierce, and Amelie was left struggling to keep up with her determined march.

All the while, her mind raced.

The Herald of Andraste...the survivor...could it be?

No, it couldn’t. It had to be a mistake.

Two people stood at the far end of the hall, and they approached them sooner than Amelie could have ever expected.

Her heart was threatening to burst from her chest. She felt dazed, confused, weak from the exertion on her body and the turmoil in her mind.

One of the people who stood in front of her was a woman hidden by a hood. The other was a man who towered over her. He had the same red hair as Amelie’s, and the same hazel-green eyes as Claudette.

He looked just like her brother. But she hadn’t expected him to sound just like him, either.

“Amy?”


	4. The Herald of Andraste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stands before a man who looks just like her brother, but can it really be him? Did he really survive the explosion at the Conclave? And, if so, why has he not come home?

“Amy?”

The man who spoke to her sounded just like her brother, and as he stood in front of her, illuminated only by a slither of moonlight and the flicker of a candle flame, he looked just like him too.

But he couldn’t be. Her brother had died in the explosion, that was why she was here. To find him, find out what happened, and bring him home. Dead, or alive.

_No one survived._

That was what she had been told, what had been in Jennifer's letter. That was what they had all believed.

But that was not what she had heard from the patrons at the inn. Nor from the pilgrims on the mountain path. Nor from Ashlen, who told her so sheepishly of the sole survivor of the explosion.

_Someone survived_.

“Amy?”

There was only one person who had continued to call her that into adulthood. It was a nickname her governess had come up with, an act of necessity as her not even 18 month old brother struggled to say her name. Her mother had always hated it, she could hear her now moaning about the lack of pride for their Orlesian heritage. Perhaps that’s why he still called her that. He always liked to test their parents patience, and sometimes her own. Or, perhaps it was a fragment of their childhood that he could stubbornly cling on to, that would be a more sympathetic theory.

After all, he could be so childish sometimes. Just like Claudette. 

“Amy? What are you doing here?”

She moved closer to him, following the call of his voice, that sounded so gentle, so melodic, against the raucous of the village outside. 

Even in the faint light of the candles, it was clear as day.

It was her brother, there could be no mistake.

He was alive, in front of her, staring down at her with his brows furrowed in confusion.

She had never been more shocked than she was in this moment.

He was alive. By the Maker, he was alive. 

She was more than happy to see him here, she was overjoyed, overwhelmed. She was relieved, blessed, more thankful than she had ever been for the graces of the Maker.

Because, after everything, he was alive.

The door behind them slammed shut. The small slither of light that had graced them with its splendour suddenly faded, and they stood in a semi-darkness punctured only by the occasional flickering of a candle. 

In the darkness, her smile fell, her heart darkened as a tidal wave of emotions washed over her; confusion, relief, and the remnants of the grief she hadn't yet allowed herself to feel.

They came out of her in one big burst of violent, corrupted energy, an anger which stemmed from somewhere deep within her heart. 

“Me? What am _I _doing here? What are _you_ doing here?” her voice was shrill and squeaky, and everyone around them seemed to be taken aback by it. But she didn’t care, she wasn’t about to stop, not even when he tried to interrupt her. “We all thought you were dead, Lionel! _That’s_ what I’m doing here!”

No one spoke for some time. Left to stew in silence, she only grew more confused, and less angry.

“I don’t really understand. Why would you think I was dead?” Lionel asked her with a tone that was little more than a whisper, while he squinted down at her in disbelief.

“Well what were we meant to think?” She cried with a scoff of disbelief. “You’d been gone for two weeks, and we’d heard nothing! And then Jennifer’s father wrote to her, he said no one survived the explosion…”

“What the…?” His words fell into an exasperated sigh. “Josephine, would you write to Lord Harrison of Ostwick and tell him _not_ to go around telling people I’m dead? It’s not exactly helpful...” 

“No way! You can sort this one out yourself,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Come on, Leliana, I think we should leave them to it.”

The other woman, Leliana, slunk away, but not before giving Amelie a curious glare with her steely grey eyes.

Maker, who did these people think they were? What was this place? And what in the name of the Maker was her brother doing, standing here in front of her as if nothing had happened?

She turned to him, and she saw a hint of confusion in his eyes. But alongside that, there was a smile that spoke to that tide of anger that had boiled up from within her. It irritated her to no end, seeing him stood here with a smile on his face, while they had all grieved, while she had expended so much energy trying to stop her grief from making itself known.

She was tired, exhausted, and he was here smiling down at her like they were both children, and he was trying to get on her last nerve.

He had always been very good at that.

“You never take anything seriously, do you? Not even when your whole family thinks you’re dead…”” She said with a scoff that was almost a laugh, one which was born from disbelief rather than amusement. But within it, there was that same relief, that same joy, that she had felt before. Because, whatever had happened, he was alive, she hadn’t lost him. Thank the Maker.

“No, not really,” he admitted with a shrug and a grin of amusement. “Some might argue that that’s actually one of my better qualities.” 

She folded her arms across her chest and threw him a glare that was icy and cold. He was very good at brushing people away with sly smiles and flippant remarks.

But not her, she knew him too well for that.

And he knew her just as well. He knew she wouldn’t let him get away with it. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t write to you–” 

“I’m not the one you should be apologising to,” she reminded him with her eyebrows raised, while her eyes remained fixed upon his own.

She would wear him down with a determined glare until he admitted defeat, stubborn Trevelyan battling against stubborn Trevelyan. Until, eventually, he sighed.

“You’re right, Amy, and you all deserve an explanation,” he said, as he turned away from her in defeat. “Come on, let’s go and talk in private. I’ll explain everything.”

Victory was hers, but it was hollow. There was something in his eyes that concerned her. They were somewhat lost, vacant, looking past her as if she wasn't even there. Then they abandoned her, and he turned away, beckoning her to follow with a wave of his hand.

The silence filled her with dread.

She wanted to be filled with joy, or relief, as she had been not that long before when she had first seen him. But she wasn't. Because he always had to have the first, and last, word and, as she had observed, he never seemed to take anything seriously, even his own death, apparently.

So his silence was telling, as was the severity of his stare, and the purposefulness of his march to the other end of the hall.

Slowly, she turned to follow him. She had no choice, really. He had all but left her behind in the cold hall of the Chantry. So she followed as he led her into a room that was cramped even for the two of them, and they were forced to shuffle around a large table in the centre that was almost entirely covered by a large map.

Ferelden and Orlais sat proudly in the centre of the table, while a pile of books and scrolls of parchment lay scattered around it.

She wondered what the map was for, and what those books and scrolls said.

But she didn't have time to wonder.

"Did you really think I was dead?" He asked her as he perched himself on the table and sat amongst the pile of scrolls. 

"Yes! I mean, what were we supposed to think? The letter said no one survived, it was quite clear," she told him with a shill squeak returning to her voice. But she soon abandoned the lecture she had been preparing.

The whispers in the inn, the chatter on the mountain path, the wailing of Chantry sisters. One of them had grabbed her, preached at her.

They had all spoken of one thing. A survivor.

_The Herald of Andraste._

“Herald of Andraste…”

Her voice had barely been a whisper, but he heard it.

He said nothing, but she knew she had his attention, even as his eyes turned towards the ground beneath his feet, avoiding her. 

It was something his children had picked up too. She had seen it so many times before when they stood at the receiving end of one of their mother's lectures. Guilt, or discomfort at having been found out. Either could describe the look in his eyes and on his face, where the pale skin had been replaced by a flush of pink.

“I...I don’t understand,” she stammered, but where could she begin? There was far too much she didn't understand. But one thing in particular had bothered her, had ripped her joy from her heart and sent her spiralling into anger. “Why didn't you come home? You survived the Conclave, you could have come back home to your family. But, instead, you decided to, what, stay here and become some kind of...of holy figure? Maker’s sake, you aren’t even that religious!”

“I know…”

There was guilt in his eyes, heaps of it. Suddenly, she felt bad for lecturing him.

She turned to him with a smile. “But I’m here now, you can come back with me! Can’t you?”

He couldn’t even look at her, his eyes wandered towards the map on the table, then to his hands, then to the ceiling. There was no smile upon his face.

“I can’t,”

Her smile fell. 

“You...can't? What do you mean, you _can’t_? Why not?” She fought to keep her frustration out of her voice, but it was hard. He wouldn't even look at her.

“Because…” he said, trailing into a sigh as he ran his hand through his hair. “Oh you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” she said, folding her arms across her chest as her patience continued to wane. She didn't like all this secrecy. He was her brother, they didn't keep secrets from each other. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve just come back from the dead. I’m sure anything else you have to say will sound perfectly normal in comparison.”

He met her piercing gaze once again, but this time, he was less defensive. Guilt rested behind those eyes. 

“I really am sorry that I put you all through that…” and he was, she could tell. It was her turn to feel guilty now.

“It’s fine,” she sighed with a hint of defeat. She could push for a better apology later, remind him that he had further apologies to give to those he had left behind. But the days were short in this part of the world. Outside, the sun would be getting low, and she was exhausted, weak, defeated. And in her state of fatigue, the mask almost slipped, she almost broke down and cried and screamed and cursed.

But she didn't. After all, what would her mother say if she found out she had acted in such a manner?

But questions burned throughout her mind as she cycled from one overpowering emotion to the next, and she found it harder with each passing second to keep that mask from slipping.

In truth, she felt as if cracks had already begun to form in its steely exterior.

But she held firm, and she waited for his explanation with all the patience and virtue of a noble lady.

Her mother might even be proud of her if she were here.

“Just, please, tell me whats going on," she urged. And, to her surprise, he obliged.

“Well...I was at the Conclave, I remember that much,” he began after they had sat in silence for some time. “But I don’t remember what happened. Suddenly, everything around me was green, and things were chasing me. So I ran. A woman was there, she helped me, and then I was in the real world again, at the Temple – or what was left of it."

He paused, and his eyes fell towards the table in front of him where his arms rested, folded into one another. He breathed a heavy sigh before he continued.

“And then I was being arrested, and I woke up in a cell,” he continued. “They thought I killed the Divine, that I’d done all of this, caused this...explosion. But, well, I didn’t, so…”

“But they let you go, right?” She asked, taking a seat at the table opposite him as she searched for those hazel-green eyes that continued to evade her. “They don’t still think you did it...do they? Is that why they won’t let you leave?”

“No, that’s not...I’m not a prisoner here, Amy,” he told her, finally meeting her gaze even if only for a second. But it was long enough for her to see the hint of truth within his eyes. Honesty, for once.

Would he be honest with her again?

It was worth a try.

“Then why are you still here? Why haven’t you come home? It’s been almost two months...”

He sighed. No answer. But then again, that was better than a lie, or a half-truth, or a whimsical remark meant to throw her off of the scent.

“Lionel, please answer me,” she pleaded, leaning across the table to clutch hold of his resting hand. But he pulled away, unfolding his arms as he leant backwards away from the table. His left arm was outstretched. He raised it, almost above his head.

And then it came to life.

“What the f–!” She threw herself away from the table, from the maps and scrolls and books, from him, as she watched in horror as his hand burst into flame – a green flame that burned, and crackled, and seethed with anger in front of her eyes. Just as that storm above the mountain had done, in that same shade of sickly green.

“Amy,” he said with a light chuckle as he withdrew his arm and, somehow, extinguished the flame. The room was suddenly a lot darker than it had been before. But his smile was brighter than it had been since he had led her here. “I didn't think I’d ever hear such foul language coming from your mouth!"

“Oh shut up!” She said with a roll of her eyes. But however hard he may try, he couldn't distract her. Not while that...thing...glowed on his hand. 

She had never really seen magic before, not beyond the work of a healer, anyway. But somehow, she knew that that was what this was. Magic. 

“Did you...did you turn into a mage? Or...did someone do this to you? Is that what you're trying to tell me? Why you don't want to come home? You don’t have to be ashamed, you know–”

She didn't care that she was rambling, or that nothing she said made any sense. 

But then again, none of this made sense.

“What? Don't be thick, Amy," He sighed, while a faint laugh trickled out of his lips at her expense. “You can't turn people into mages. And I’m 29 years old, Amy, I think if I was going to be a mage that would have happened by now.”

Her face burned as she turned away from his stare.

“Look, I don’t know what it is either,” he admitted to her, throwing his hands into the air in a display of his innocence. “No one knows what it is. Well, one person seems to – an elf. But I don't talk to him much, he's a bit weird.”

“But why is it there?” She asked him as she inched back towards the table to take her seat once again, albeit with a lot more caution than before.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged.

“Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know…"

“What–”

He cut her off sharply. “Look, all I know is that, with this, I might be able to seal the Breach and _that_ is why I’ve been here helping these people. That’s the big green thing in the sky, by the way. You would have seen it–”

“Well you can't exactly miss it…" she said with a roll of her eyes. "I mean, Andraste preserve us, you can see it from Ostwick!" 

“Really?” He frowned at her.

“Yes! That’s why we all thought you were dead!” She told him with a tut of impatience. “Well, Mother was in denial. But Jennifer and I took one look at that...thing...and thought, well, it _must_ be true. I mean, how in the name of the Maker could anyone survive that?”

She looked at him then with a solemn smile, and a hint of that former joy began to seep into her heart. "But I'm so glad you did."

He was quiet, his eyes turning back down towards the table as he sat pensively.

“What did...what did the boys say? When you told them...”

“We didn’t,” she said quickly, and his eyes came up to meet hers once again. This time, they were filled with hope. “We thought it would be best if we waited until I’d come and seen you. I said for her to wait until she’d received word from me.”

“Good,”

“So I think it would be a good idea for you to write to her,” she said, and she noted how the muscles in his jaw clenched at her words. "And apologise to her for what you put her through!"

“Oh...yeah…I’ll do that tomorrow,” he said somewhat sheepishly. But all of a sudden, a smile crept onto his lips, and a light returned to his eyes as he looked over at her hopefully. “Why don’t you stay tonight? Or, well, for as many nights as you like, actually!"

“Oh, I don’t know…" she fidgeted beneath his excitable gaze. She wanted to spend time with him, she really did. But...I left most of my things down at the inn at the bottom of the mountain, and...”

“Oh don’t worry about that! You can borrow clothes and, well, whatever else you need.” He dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. Of course he wouldn't let her finish, he rarely did. “Come on, you’ve come all this way, you may as well stay for a bit! We can send word down to the inn – and home, I haven't forgotten – it will be fine!”

“Well…” she squirmed beneath his gaze, but she knew him possibly better than she knew anyone else, and she knew there was no way he would let her say no. Just like her father, there was little point in arguing with him. “Alright, fine...”

“Great! I’ll get someone to set a room up for you,” he told her as he launched himself off of the bench and towards the door. 

Then, all of a sudden, he paused, with his hand clutching onto the door handle so tightly that she thought he was going to break it off.

He turned back to her with a solemn glare. “Wait...can I ask something first?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said with a shrug.

“Why did you come here?” He asked her, his eyes watching her from over his shoulder while his hand remained stubbornly upon the door handle. “I mean, I’m glad you did, of course. But...you thought I was dead, so why would you come?”

“Well, I offered...sort of,” she admitted somewhat uncomfortably. “Father wanted someone to come and get you, he – quite understandably – didn’t want you...buried...outside of Ostwick. He wanted you home.”

She dropped her gaze for a second, but when she turned to him once again, she saw that the muscles in his jaw had clenched once again, and he turned away from her just as a spark flew out from his left hand.

She jumped out of her skin at the sight of it.

_Maker..._

“He wouldn’t have to worry about that if he hadn’t have made me come here in the first place,” he said cooly, while Amelie watched his shoulders rise in fall in time with his breath, and more green sparks erupted from his hand. 

She sighed heavily. “He wanted you, as his heir, to represent–”

“I know, Amy! Represent the family, and represent Ostwick," he said with an impatient – she would even say angry – sigh. "But ever since he told me to come, ever since I left Ostwick, I kept thinking: why? Why do I need to represent our family? Why did I need to come here? We have no stake in this war. Ostwick has been neutral, we had nothing to do with it!”

She had no answer. In truth, she hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t questioned it. It had been his duty to go, that was all.

She never asked questions. She never asked why. It wasn't worth it.

No one ever bothered to answer them anyway.

“I met our uncle at the Conclave. Uncle Armin, the mage,” she was told after another long period of silence. “That’s when it began to mae sense to me, why our father would bother sending me here. He knew that his brother would be attending, and he couldn’t stand to be upstaged by him during what could be the biggest political moment of our age.”

“You don’t know that,” she said calmly, but her protestations fell on deaf ears.

“Amy, I didn’t need to be there. We had no part to play, it wasn’t our battle. And, yet…” he fell into silence, and she followed his gaze and he looked down towards his glowing green hand with a scowl on his lips and a bitter glare in his eyes. “I’ve been to the crater, I’ve seen what the Breach did to all of those people. So, trust me when I tell you that, if you had come here to find me, and I had died at the Conclave, there would have been nothing for you to find, nothing to bring home to our father.”

She had no argument to offer.

“They were gone, all of them. There was...there was nothing left...” he said simply, and that’s when the weight of his words fell upon her chest. “And I would have been one of them. Amelie, you would have come here and found nothing.”

She had no words for him. All she could do was watch him as he turned away from her and set his hand upon that door once again.

“My death would have been on our father’s conscience, Amelie, and all for the sake of a tiny bit of political leverage. But I doubt he would have cared,” he spat at her, in one last sweeping statement before he left the room, and her, in silence.

As the silence and the darkness closed in on her, more questions began to burn within the mire of her troubled thoughts.

And at the centre of them, there was no longer the issue of her brother’s supposed death but, rather, the words he had spoken about their father, his motivations, and what his orders had almost led to.

Duty to their family had almost killed her brother. And yet he had adhered to it, without question, with a sense of bitterness only now beginning to make itself known.

She too had followed a sense of duty when she had come here, and she couldn’t help but wonder where it may lead her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and it's Dec 4th so happy DA Day everyone!! :D Hope you enjoyed this little contribution i could make to the celebration of all things DA! I've also been sharing things over on my twitter @inqsmabari for the event so if you're on the platform come and find me ;)


	5. In the Company of the Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Removed from the comforts of her life in Ostwick, Amelie feels as if she is in another world as she meets some of the members of the group that has formed around her brother in hopes of sealing the Breach: the Inquisition.

Dresses, braided hair, powder upon the nose and stain upon the lips: those were a noble woman’s armour. That was what her mother had always told her, anyway. In her armour, she was protected, safe, shielded her from the world even when she was at her most vulnerable. From a young age, ladies like herself were taught to mask their expressions with a layer of powder, to hide themselves beneath layers of skirts that drew the eye of a rich suitor as they twirled around the dancefloor, and to keep their attention with intricate braids that cascaded down towards their chest.

It was a part of her identity, her mother had made sure of that. It was what all noblewomen did.

So when she had been presented with a pile of clothes that resembled a murky sludge of greys and browns, she felt as if a part of her had been striped away.

No powder for her nose or stain for her lips. No accessories for her hair and no one even to style it for her. 

But, worst of all, no dress.

A dress could hide a multitude of sins. Trousers could not.

There was no hiding her broad shoulders or large chest in the tight fitting shirts she had been given, nor did the trousers do her wide hips and large bum any favours, either.

She felt exposed, and not just to the cold.

Some people liked to be exposed. Claudette, for example, always made sure that her dresses showcased the very best parts of her; her slender waist, her delicate curves, her radiant skin that had been spared the mass of freckles that plagued Amelie’s own.

But that was Claudette. Amelie was not her sister, she didn't have any best parts.

Dresses were her armour, her shield, a place to hide herself away. Just as her mother had taught her.

But not dresses here. Only trousers and shirts and...Maker...knee high boots.

They would never get over her calves. This was going to be embarrassing.

She didn’t feel comfortable here. She had been tired enough from her long journey to fall asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, thank the Maker. Because as soon as she woke up, she noticed just how scratchy the bed sheets were, and just how hard her mattress was. 

But she wasn’t here to sleep on the finest beds, or wear the prettiest dresses. She was here to see her brother, ease his pain while he wallowed in his prison, trapped here, at the edge of the world, beneath a churning mass of green storm clouds that sneered down at them from the skies above.

The Breach. His hand. Herald of Andraste...

It all sounded ridiculous. But she wasn’t here to make sense of it all; it wasn’t a puzzle for her to solve. She was here for her brother, to see him, to enjoy the moments she could share with him now that she was sure she hadn’t lost him. 

It was just a shame that Haven was so damn cold, and that these clothes were so...not her.

Mercifully, she had been given a coat that she could hide herself in. It was white, and possibly designed to be floor length for most people. But not her, it barely went past her knees. 

If her legs felt the chill, then it would be her fathers doing. It was his height, and his width, that she had inherited, after all.

She sighed heavily; she would have to leave her room looking as she did. The very thought was mortifying to her and, when she finally found the courage to leave, she knew that her stride wasn't quite as sure as it normally was, her gaze not quite as firm. Stripped of her armour, her dresses, her make-up, her weak points had been exposed, her confidence had wavered.

But there was nothing that could be done about it; Haven would just have to deal with the fact that Lady Amelie Hargove was going to be looking far from her best while she stayed here.

But then again, it had been far from hospitable so far. It was eternally cold, and everything was drab and dreary. Plus, all she could think about was her brother’s words from the night before.

_“My death would have been on our father’s conscience, Amelie, and all for the sake of a tiny bit of political leverage. But I doubt he would have cared,”_

It was harsh upon their father, but then Lionel always had been. But she thought upon his words that morning as she left her room. Was there any truth to them?

Out of all of them, her father had certainly appeared to be the least affected by his son’s apparent death. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. After all, he never gave away what he was feeling, never showed emotion. He was steely, and cold, with an exterior of pure iron. He could hear the worst possible news and yet not even flinch, as she had witnessed so perfectly some weeks before.

His mask was impenetrable, and he wore it with pride. 

But the same could be said for her mother, the one who had shown Amelie how to construct her own mask of iron, shielding her from all of her pain and grief and hardship, steeling her against the cruelties of the world. And, yet, she had been all but hysterical at the news of her son’s apparent death.

Her grief was evident, clear. His was far from it.

But she didn’t have time to dwell upon it further.

"Amy!" Her thoughts were interrupted by the call of her brother just as she stepped out into the hall of the Chantry to find him stood with another man, who she didn’t even think to give a second glance as she approached her brother."Oh, you know what, I did not expect those clothes to suit you at all. But they don't actually look too bad!"

She turned to him with a look of surprise. "Thanks, I guess?" 

"You could have at least done your hair though," he added, and she immediately burned once again beneath his stare. "Come here, I'll do it." 

Sighing, she obliged, as she always did. Because it was always something he had done, to herself and to her sister. Usually, she would be more than happy to relax into the feeling of his fingers working their way through her masses of red hair that cascaded almost down to her waist. But she was all too aware of the presence of the other man who stood opposite them, who's jaw was clenched so hard that she wondered if it had become stuck that way.

That was when she realised, standing opposite was the man she had met only briefly the day before, the one she had seen when she had first entered the village.

He looked tired, stressed, pained, almost. 

"Oh, sorry Cullen. This is my sister, Amy – sorry, that's _Lady _Amelie to you. She's going to be staying with us for a while,” she was introduced to the man with little more than a flippant aside from her brother, detecting a hint of impatience in her voice as he focused instead on her hair. "Amy, this is Commander Cullen."

"It’s lovely to meet you," she said with a smile, but she was only met with a cold stare framed by thick brows that almost seemed permanently fixed into a tight knot above his eyes.

She looked away quickly, hoping that they could forget this man's presence and continue as they were. But that wasn't what her brother had in mind.

"So, Cullen, what was it you were saying before?"

Cullen's frown dissipated. Instead, he looked panicked, frightened, like an innocent fennec held at swordpoint by the proud hand of a smug huntsman.

So it appeared he could change his expression, after all.

“Oh, it’s fine, I can come back later,” he insisted.

“No, no. You carry on, say your piece. After all, you were so insistent that I listen to you before, when you told me how _inexperienced_ I am at these matters,” he insisted, as she felt his delicate grip upon her hair suddenly tighten in perfect synchronisation with the injection of poison into his voice. “Something about all of these visitors we’re having, wasn’t it?”

She watched Cullen turn as crimson as the mantle he wore and, suddenly, she didn’t feel as if she was the only one who felt exposed.

“Wasn’t it something about how we should send them all home and focus on the _real_ problems we’re facing,” Her brother answered for him, his words turning bitter as he all but spat them out at him, while his grip upon her hair grew so tight that she turned around and yelped in protest. “Sorry, Amy…”

“I...I...I was just…" Cullen stammered in protest, and Amelie’s eyes turned back towards his so that she could watch him struggle to fight his corner.

Her eyes must have given away the storm that was brewing in her mind, because he appeared to shrink even more beneath her gaze.

This would not be the first time anyone had suggested she was in the way, a nuisance, a pest. It was common. After all, women rarely had anything to contribute to the great moments in this world. People talked of the great women in this world with such reverence, but Amelie often found that, in reality, the typical noble women had all their efforts to contribute shunned, discarded, as if it were worth nothing.

As if _they _were worth nothing.

She had often been told to keep her head down, keep quiet, and do her duty, unquestioned. To do anything else was beyond her remit. She’d just be in the way.

Just as she was now. She should have just stayed home...

“I was just…” he began, as she watched him gulp sheepishly, with a hand travelling to the back of his neck where he almost clawed at his pale skin. “I was just thinking on a practical level. We only have a limited amount of resources and–”

“And what?” Her brother asked him as he continued to tug angrily at her hair. “Send all of those grieving families home because we can’t be arsed to feed them after their loved ones just died? Send my sister home after she came all of this way, because she thought I was dead?”

Cullen looked at her from the corner of his eye, then his gaze fell, a blush rising to his cheeks as he turned away sheepishly.

“No, I... I just–”

“Don’t even bother, Cullen,” he sighed, interrupting Cullen’s failed attempts to excuse himself. “You’re not going to come out of this one in a positive light whatever happens, so you may as well just drop it. Now.”

Cullen was silent, his lips, that had been scarred by some prior conflict, were jammed shut. His eyes were hard and steely, and his jaw was so rigid that she wondered whether it could have given him a migraine.

She could tell he was determined not to stand down. She could tell he wanted to argue, to fight his corner. Stubborn. But then, so was she, so was her brother.

One of them would have to back down and, with both herself and her brother on the defensive, it only made sense that Cullen would be the one to break first.

He did. He sighed, he retreated, he backed away. 

But Amelie wasn’t satisfied. His words had rattled her, raised her hackles. This man talked sense, perhaps. It was silly to allocate their precious resources on people who would be gone before the dawn. But with that tone, she could only presume that he hadn’t felt what she had felt. He hadn’t heard that a loved one had died, and travelled for weeks beneath a cloud of despair to find them, slowly approaching the fate that awaited them at the end of the long road.

She had. It wouldn't be clear to the outside world, to him. Her mask was impenetrable. But she had known it, felt it, and tried so hard to scramble together her armour to protect her from the pain she had been feeling until, eventually, she felt almost nothing. That was for the best, after all. That was what her mother had always said.

So the irritation that had boiled up from within her didn't seem so misplaced, and she wasn't in the slightest bit ashamed when she found herself speaking up in her defense. 

“Wait!” 

He turned, slowly, and he faced her, bravely. She respected that, at least.

“I’m sorry to be such a _burden_ upon you,” she said with a sting to her words, nothing the way his lips twitched, aggravating that aggressive scar that pulled at his upper lip. “But you'll be pleased to know that I plan to make myself useful while I'm here.”

Her brother almost exploded with anger. “Amy! You don’t have to prove yourself to someone like–”

“Lionel, please,” she pulled away from his hold for the briefest of seconds while she turned to him with an insistent glare, before turning her gaze towards Cullen once again, holding him there while she prepared her piece.

She hardly knew this man, but she was not going to let him leave this Chantry and wander around Haven telling everyone how useless she was.

She was angry, she couldn't help herself. She was quick to anger, she always had been. But then, Trevelyans always were.

She swore she heard him scoff. “With all due respect, Lady Treve–”

"Do you doubt me, Commander Cullen?" She ignored the slip of his tongue, the use of her old name. After all, did it really matter?

“I just...well...with the greatest respect, can I ask how you plan to be of use to the Inquisition?”

“I don’t think I understand your question, Commander,” she said with an innocent smile. But she knew exactly what he meant, as did her brother. He was silent, but his eyes betrayed his anger, and he had long since abandoned the braid he had been crafting in her hair.

“Well, do you plan on joining our army?” Cullen continued, and she watched him as he gave her a cursory glance with his eyes that shone with a hint of gold amongst a sea of chestnut brown. That hint of light within his eyes betrayed his amusement at his jibe, as did the smirk on his lips that was punctuated by a violent scar that tore through his upper lip. “Are you adept at swinging a sword? Or are you better with the bow?”

She had thought she had understood before, but now she knew exactly what he was referring to. She was big, _fat_, her mother would say. She never even ran up the stairs for fear of getting out of breath. 

He knew she was of no use to him, as did she. 

But there was more to life than swords and bows and soldiers.

“Well, thank you for the kind offer, Commander,” she said as she forced herself to smile up at him. She would not let her smile fade, she would not let her mask slip. She would remain strong. “But what I was actually referring to were the contacts that I can provide you to aid the Inquisition in its diplomatic efforts.”

He fell silent. His smirk had faded. But he didn’t want to back down, didn’t want to give in. Stubborn, just like herself.

But someone had to back down, and it wouldn't be her. She had been through too much to let someone get to her this way

His gaze fell. He coughed, cleared his throat, his hand clutching at the back of his neck once again. That must be a nervous tick of his. “Well, I’m sure Josephine will find that very useful…”

Defeated, he fell away. Wounded, he retreated.

Victorious, she smiled. “She will,”

She felt Lionel pick up the braid he had abandoned.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Yes, well…” Cullen squirmed beneath her gaze, as his eyes flitted between the two of them while a blush crept onto his cheeks.

He backed away, hoping to make his escape.

But her brother's voice called to him, just as he finished the braid in her hair, and he spoke with such authority that even a man as broad and strong as Cullen stopped in his tracks.

"Cullen, I think you should have listened to me, and quit while you were ahead. Don't you?"

She had never seen him use this power before. He was taller than Cullen, yes. Taller than most people, in fact. But he was skinny, and gangly, and soft from all those years of living a pampered noble lifestyle. 

But his authority was unmistakable. She should have known he was capable of it; being the son of Bann Trevelyan, being bred for power, authority, it gifted you with a remarkable amount of confidence. But she had never seen him use it like this before.

Cullen squirmed even more, his face now so red that she was sure the temperature in the room had risen around him.

"Yes, well…" he said finally, but he still didn't retreat. Instead, he looked into Lionel's face with a furious scowl. "I should be returning to my duties…"

"Yes I think you should," Lionel said, stepping out from behind her to stand next to Cullen who, like everyone else, he towered over with ease. "And, Cullen, don't ever speak to my sister like that again."

Cullen opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. Instead, he made his excuses to the pair of them and turned to leave. Thank the Maker...

"Wait!" Another cry hailed him, but it wasn't from her this time. Cullen froze to the spot, then he turned, slowly, and stepped towards her brother. His scowl was menacing. "As a way of apology, seeing as you haven't bothered to offer us one, you can look after my sister today while I get to work." Cullen's scowl fell away. Instead, he looked horrified. _Charming_... "Go and give your orders to Knight-Captain Rylen, I'm sure he can take over your duties for the morning. Then, come back here and meet my sister. You can give her a tour of Haven, show her round. Won't that be nice?"

_No_, _it wouldn't._

Cullen looked at the pair of them with dread, then his face morphed into one of anger. His brown eyes had lost their hint of gold, and were now steely, hard, a mire of anger, impatience, spite.

But with a sigh, he relented, and the anger in his eyes gave way to resignation, defeat.

"Of course," was all he said, but it was enough to fill her with dread.

_Great..._

"Lovely! Now off you go," he was instructed with a wave of the hand. To her relief, he obeyed. She could breathe again.

He had bowed down to the weight of her brother’s words, just as people did with their father, who’s fierce, commanding tone could bring a chill to anyone’s spine. 

Her brother was not quite so fierce, but it surprised her to learn that he could be just as commanding.

Had he been like that before? Or had she just not witnessed it?

"Sorry about him," her brother said with a sigh and an apologetic smile. "I can't figure him out, to be honest. Most mornings he seems to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed, but then when he hasn't, well, he seems to be even more intolerable..."

He sighed again, then adapted his smile into one that was too earnest, too enthusiastic, to be genuine. Trying to cheer her up, perhaps. 

It didn't work.

"Anyway, your hair looks good! If I may say so myself," he told her, once again with too much enthusiasm, as he picked up her braid and brought it over her shoulder for the both of them to inspect.

"Well, I should hope it does!" she said with some uncertainty as she scanned it with her eyes. 

It wasn't Ashlen's work. She knew how to do the most beautiful braids she had ever seen, ones which she told her her elven mother had always done to her when she was small. They wound around the back of her head in the most complex pattern she had ever seen, and she always liked to trace the patterns with a wandering finger while she disappeared into her thoughts. 

This, however, was a simple Orlesian braid, but it was better than nothing. And, besides, it kept her long red hair from becoming tangled as it hung around her waist.

"Of course it does," he said with a scoff, as if anything he did could ever be less than perfect. "Amy, I've been braiding your hair since I was five years old, I know what I'm doing."

She shrugged, having lost her appetite for argument after her stand off with Commander Cullen. There wasn't much to argue with here, anyway. After all, she liked it when he braided her hair, even if he had only ever learnt how to do that one basic style in a short lesson from their governess.

"Anyway, how are you finding Haven? Did you sleep alright last night?" He asked her after a moment of silence between the two of them, while her fingers absentmindedly twisted the bottom of her braid. "I know it probably isn't very comfortable, but it's certainly warmer in here than in one of the cabins, and we're beginning to run out of them..."

"It was fine, thank you," she smiled up at him, and found herself receiving one in return. "I'm more concerned with having to wear these clothes…"

"Oh you look fine," he dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. "Its cold out there, anyway. Trust me, you'll need all of those layers."

"You can say that again!" 

An unknown voice called out from the far end of the hall, as a man strode towards them from the set of large wooden doors that lead out to the village of Haven and let in a hint of the cold they spoke about. "I'm beginning to regret trading my very warm room in Redcliffe for this frozen hellscape."

"Oh stop moaning!" her brother turned towards him as he approached. And as he did so, she noticed the staff that clung to his back. A mage? Fresh from the collapsed Circles, perhaps? "You know, you wouldn't be so cold if you actually wore some sensible clothes." He remarked with a disdainful glance over his outfit of choice, which did seem to be less than appropriate for a mountain village that was almost constantly harassed by a freezing cold wind. “Do you even have a coat?”

“Don't be ridiculous! We don’t need _coats_ in Tevinter, Herald,” was his reply. Tevinter. She'd never met anyone from Tevinter, but she had heard the stories in the Chant. She found herself tensing slightly, but any concern she held for the presence of a man from Tevinter was soon lost by his use of that word she had now heard so often.

_Herald_. 

That would be a title she had to get used to now, she imagined, what with the two of them being here in the midst of all of this madness. But could she?

To her, he was her brother, her family. He was also a husband, a father, an heir to a prestigious title and a wealth of land in the countryside around the city of Ostwick. To her, he wasn’t a Herald, a title conjured out of the depths of chaos and supposedly bestowed upon him with the blessing of Andraste herself.

But to all of these people, he was exactly that.

She couldn't imagine she would ever see him in that light. It was unfathomable to her.

“Amy?” She jumped out of her skin as her brother interrupted her spiralling thoughts and demanded her attention once again. “Were you even listening to me?”

She didn’t answer, ashamed at the way she had let her attention slip. But then again, how often _did _she listen to him.

“Maker’s sake…” he sighed, while she felt her cheeks burn beneath his irritated stare. “I was saying, I’m going to take Dorian over to the armoury to find some clothes that cover his nipples. You’re welcome to come, except–” he paused at the sound of heavy footsteps at the far end of the hall. “Oh, there he is! Look lively, Amy, you’re chaperone is here!”

She followed his gaze towards the door, where the light shone so brilliantly that all she could see was a figure that loomed in the doorway, casting long shadows towards them that stretched across the stone floor beneath their feet.

“I am sorry about offloading him onto you, Amy,” he said with an apologetic smile, but there was a hint of a grin at the corners of his lips, and far too much amusement in those hazel green eyes of his. “But I couldn’t think of any more fitting punishment for his...indiscretion."

Well, that smile really proved it. Despite everything, he hadn't changed. Despite his new title, he was still her brother. Despite being revered by others, he still annoyed her to no end.

He may be a ‘Herald of Andraste’, but he was still her brother.

“It’s fine,” she said with poison on her tongue and a bitter sting to her words. “I’ll see you later.”

He gave her one last smile before he left, smiling even as she scowled at him menacingly. But he ignored her, and marched off with the other man to leave her to her fate. And she was left alone in the cold, dark Chantry, with the shadows from that man casting over her.

That man who had been so cold, so stern, so judgemental when he had cast his gaze over her. 

Now, she had to spend time with him, alone, without her brother to stand by her side.

She walked towards him slowly, stepping out into the light of the day, which once again highlighted that hint of gold within Commander Cullen's eyes.

But his scarred lips were thin and strained, and that scowl was still present in the crease of his eyes and the knot in his brows.

Maker, her brother was going to pay for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey ho thanks so much for reading! just a quick note that i'll be on christmas break next week so won't get a chapter up then for a few weeks. But i keep people up to speed on my twitter if you want to know when i'll be uploading! and have a great holiday season and i'll see you when all the fun and festivities are over <3


	6. Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escorted by Commander Cullen, Amelie experiences life in the village of Haven for the first time. But it is not just the cold that is making it difficult for her to acclimatise.

Outside of the Chantry, Haven was cold.

Every path, every tree, every squat wooden building with smoke billowing out of its chimney, was covered in a deep blanket of snow that only grew deeper as an endless flurry of flakes trickled down from the sky above. She shivered, growing ever colder as the snow at her feet began to attach itself to her brown leather boots, and the ice began to settle into her long red braid of hair.

But it wasn’t just Haven that was cold.

Her companion's stare was icy, his demeanour as cold as the snow beneath their feet. He was polite enough in word, but not in deed, his movements brisk as he sought to get this ordeal over with as soon as possible.

Her attitude very much mirrored his, so she was somewhat grateful.

There was a part of her, however, that was curious about this place, and how her brother fit into it all. But at the same time, it was cold, the wind was bitter, and she had no desire to be escorted around by a man who clearly had better things to do than accompany herself.

But in spite of their mutual feelings, her demeanour was far less cold, her gaze far less icy, than his own. Instead, she did what her mother would do. She smiled, she talked, and she pretended that nothing was wrong.

“I do appreciate you accompanying me today, Commander…”she told him in an attempt to break the heavy silence between them.

“Cullen,” he added quickly, his eyes remaining focused on the path in front of him.

An instruction, an order, rather than a request. 

"Commander Cullen," She cleared her throat. "I really do appreciate it," she lied. "I'm sure you have far more important things to be doing with your day.”

His stride slowed as they turned a corner just as a flurry of soldiers came marching through the snow and rushed past them so quickly that she felt her hair lift in the wind. 

“Yes, I do," he told her, making no attempt to hide the disdain in his voice. " But your brother asked me to look after you today, so I will.”

“Well, you don’t _have_ to listen to him. Trust me, I don't,” she said with a half-hearted laugh that, somehow, she thought would help to lighten the mood. 

It didn’t.

“No, I have to,” he corrected her without even acknowledging her attempt at humour. “Cassandra gave me a lecture on it after...well...”

She looked over at him then, curious as to what could have happened between the two of them. But he wasn't going to tell her.

So she would have to guess. And by his attitude today, well, it wouldn't take much for her to formulate a theory.

Maker, this was going to be a long day.

Why had her brother insisted on her having to endure this...this tour, if she could even call it that. The march through the village was brisk, so much so that she’d learnt what none of these buildings were, and the pace was so fast that she barely even got a look at them. But part of her was grateful for that. Her feet were cold, her hands even colder, her face even colder still. 

And besides that, the sooner this was done, the sooner she could retreat to her room and leave this man to his duties.

Escape. She would jump at the chance to escape from here, maybe even find her brother again, spend time with him now that she had been so close to losing him.

That was all she wanted. But instead, she was stuck here with– 

“It was about the issue with the mage rebellion,” he burst out all of a sudden, slicing through their silence with an outcry that made Amelie jump. “I was a Templar once, so I may have been somewhat...heavy handed...when I suggested we approach the Order. And then, well, he comes home with the mages as our allies, I mean...”

She didn’t respond. If she were to be honest with him, she’d tell him she wasn’t interested in anything he was talking about. She wasn't interested in what may have happened between Lionel and this man. She wasn't interested in what he had to say about mages and Templars and rebellions. To tell the truth, she wasn't particularly interested in anything he had to say.

But she did exactly what her mother would do. She smiled, looked away, said nothing. 

And so he continued.

“It doesn’t help as well that, being a military man all of my life, I respond less to authority than I do respect,” he told her then, and that was when her attention reignited. 

Suddenly, she was interested.

“I meant no offense, Lady Trev–”

Her mask had slipped, and he read her thoughts as easily as a scholar could read an aged tome. 

She made no effort to compose herself, either. Amelie had learnt from the best, her mother of course, but even her mother would lose her composure when her family were under attack.

So she let the irritation boil up from within, even as the two came to an abrupt stop.

“I just meant that, well, I don’t know him enough yet to completely trust him. And, well, I have years of experience in matters of war, as does Cassandra–”

“And he has none,” she finished his sentence for him, her tone curt as it stung with impatience. But she forced herself to breath, to compose herself. “I can understand your concern. And I will admit that, as his family, I am equally concerned about him being here." She breathed again, watching as his eyes dropped, and his face became flooded by shame. With another breath, she was able to speak. "But I can at least be secure in the knowledge that he has people with such impressive credentials to advise him.”

A compliment barbed with a thousand poisoned knives; there was no mistaking her anger now.

She couldn’t help it. Her mask had slipped.

They all had a temper; it was a Trevelyan trait, her mother always said. But her mother could be just as quick to anger as the rest of them.

And Amelie's tempers had been raised, and a fire burned inside of her that was so strong it kept cold at bay.

“Yes, well, we try our best,” he said finally, backing away, accepting defeat, perhaps even accepting the wrong he had committed. 

Or perhaps not, perhaps that was too generous.

But she could lower her guard now, at least, safe in the knowledge that she had successfully protected her own.

That's what they did, her family, protected one another above all else. And they always would. 

Silence followed then, and she revelled in it. Devoid of any desire to converse with her companion, she listened instead to the sounds of soldiers hurrying about, of people chattering and whispering, and of fires crackling in campsites that had been erected in almost every available space, and her eyes wandered as their path took them through the village and out to the tall wooden gate that she had walked through only yesterday.

When she had, the Breach, as her brother called it, had been behind her. She hadn’t even really looked at it, instead focusing upon the path ahead, on what she had to do, on the feelings that she didn't want to feel.

Now, it was here, in front of her: angry, violent, churning with hatred for everything in its path. But it was also somewhat majestic, in its own way. It eclipsed everything that came before it; nothing she had ever seen before could compare to its menacing, otherworldly presence in the sky above.

“That’s...that’s the Breach?” She found herself asking without even realising.

“Yes," Cullen answered quickly, almost impatiently. "Did you not see it on your journey here?”

“Yes, of course I did. But not this close,” she in fear of its anger, but in awe of its majesty. It was too complicated to understand how she felt beneath its gaze; all she knew was that it was like nothing she had ever seen before, and it terrified her.

“It’s frightening, isn’t it,” Cullen admitted as he moved to stand next to her with his gaze following her own. “Such an outburst of magic – magic we don’t even understand.” He turned to her. “_That _is why I can come across as...prickly, I guess. I just want to make sure that we have everything we need to tackle that...that thing. That we do what is necessary and what is right, that we take the right path so that more people don't get hurt."

With no answer from him, she turned away. Instead, she found her eyes falling upon the stables where, in the distance, she could hear her brother talking, his lilted tones hailing above the cries of soldiers as he spoke to people she didn’t know. _Of course he was at the stables..._

“Oh come on don’t look so worried! I’m not going to make you wear plaidweave or anything,”

“Nothing wrong with plaidweave, posh boy! Just because you can’t make it look good, doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

“Yes, Sera, it looks great on you. But it’s going to look stupid on him, isn’t it?” I mean, look at him…"

She watched in wonder, almost forgetting that Cullen was standing next to her, almost forgetting what it was that he had been saying, what had wound her up so much. 

Because it was remarkable to her just how at ease her brother was here.

Cullen was right, in a way. He didn't fit in here, and neither did she. As soon as people like her, nobility, stepped foot in the world outside of their plush homes and sheltered lives, they were lost, like nugs struggling to stay afloat in a stormy sea.

That was what she had thought, anyway. That’s what anyone could assume, including Cullen. But apparently, that wasn't the case, not with him.

But that was just how he was, how he had always been. He was Lionel Trevelyan, the eldest son of Bann Ferdinand of Ostwick. He had charisma, charm, and decades of experience navigating the highest political spheres.

She was not. She had none of those things.

While she struggled to stay afloat in a rippling dark sea, he swam past her with ease.

She could defend his presence here much more than she could her own.

She turned back to Cullen once again, and her gaze was steely and hard as she prepared to defend her brother's place in a world she didn't understand.

But she could worry about herself later, she could dwell on her own inadequacies when this man wasn't here to judge her every word, every movement, every breath. 

She would not let him know how lost she felt. She would not squeal as another wave approached her from the quaking deep.

She would hide behind her mask and defend her family's honour, as was her duty. 

“I think I understand you, Commander Cullen," she said with her tone constrained by the mask she so desperately hid behind. "I look at that Breach now, and I see why you are so adamant on prioritising military might in the face of such evil."

He seemed taken aback as she brought the uncomfortable silence to an abrupt end, as if the last thing he had expected was for her to agree with him.

It was what she had always been taught to do, politeness in the face of everything. It was another one of their defenses, another layer to their armour. 

The upper hand, but earnt only by a polite smile etched onto a mask of iron.

That smile only strengthened as she continued. “But my brother has many other strengths, far more than myself at least. He’s charismatic, and charming, and everyone who meets him almost instantly decides they like him," it pained her to say it, but she had a family to defend, and, she hated to admit, it was true. "He speaks Orlesian better than myself, and especially better than my sister, and he even knows some Antivan that he learnt from his mother-in-law," she took a breath, enjoying the look of surprise on Cullen's face as he absorbed every word she uttered. "He’s always been energetic and enjoyed sports, and is a far better horse rider than any of us. And, of course, he is very politically astute, and has a multitude of contacts throughout Thedas."

She paused again, her smile stronger than it had been since they had first met. "So, even if he isn’t from a similar background to yourself, he still has his own experiences to bring to the table, surely? I’m sure his talents just lie elsewhere.”

Cullen was silent for a time. She watched him as his eyes drifted towards the Breach, and she noted the way that its green glow reflected in his golden brown eyes.

Then, to her astonishment, she saw a smile creep onto his lips. That was when she noticed his scar, which cut through the soft pink flesh so viciously, so cruelly, that it made his smile appear crooked.

“I expect they do,” He said as he watched her with eyes that twinkled in tandem with his smile. “Which is a good thing, seeing as he was rubbish when I tried to teach him how to fight.”

“Oh Maker, I would have loved to have seen that” She asked him, as she found herself not only smiling, but laughing, for the first time since she had woken this morning. “Well, don’t tell my father. He spent a lot of money on his education, and he won’t like to think that it’s gone to waste.”

“Well, he isn’t bad. He can use a sword quite well, but he’s rubbish with a shield – doesn’t even bother taking one out with him. And, really, he’s more suited to a bow with his errr...frame,” he said with a shrug, and she could understand exactly what he meant. He was far too skinny, far too soft natured, for Amelie to even imagine him having to fight anyone. The thought almost made her laugh again. “But unfortunately, there are some things you can only learn from experience on the field, rather than an aristocrats training yard.”

Her smile faded. _Aristocrats_. It was the tone he had used that bothered her. It was bitter, and uncaring, spat out like a foul, offensive piece of food that had found its way onto his plate. 

She thought that perhaps they had found some common ground. But she was wrong.

They were so different, he was so...standoffish.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean any offense,” he said quickly, reading her expression like a book as he stammered to muster a defense. “But I’m sure you understand my meaning.”

“Perhaps,” was all she was going to say. 

And she should have left it there. After all, what did it matter what this man thought? He was no one to her, and she wouldn’t be here long enough to care what he thought about her.

“I imagine the reason he doesn’t use a shield is because of his shoulder injury, though. Isn’t it?” She asked him plainly and, to her surprise, that steely exterior cracked, all but falling apart before her eyes.

His cold demeanour had fallen. His icy stare had turned to one of confusion, panic, even.

“His...his what?”

She had him caught, trapped like a fennec backed into a corner by the point of a huntsmans sword.

And now, victorious, she had caught the thrill of the hunt. The rush of adrenaline shocked even her.

Why did she care so much? Why was she wasting her time on this man she didn’t even know?

Duty. Family. Pride. Those were the usual suspects when a Trevelyan’s blood began to boil.

“Oh, has he not told you?” She asked him, but the answer was as plain as day. “He came off of his horse a few years ago and dislocated his shoulder. His left arm hasn’t been the same since.” She studied his expression closely, and she saw no hint of recollection. Again, that feeling rose from within, that burst of adrenaline that only a bittersweet victory could bring. “I presume you didn’t know that?”

“No, I didn’t,” he admitted sheepishly, his gaze falling from her own as he turned to look out once again towards the Breach.

She did too. It was still just as angry, just as vicious as it had been before. This time however, it almost reflected the mire of emotions that was swelling from within her heart.

She felt just as angry as that Breach looked, although somewhat less vicious, less violent, less menacing. In a way, she understood his judgement. They were all weak, all of her family. They were privileged, soft, untouched by the troubles of the world while they sat upon priceless furniture in the largest homes money could buy, drinking tea while, outside of their windows, wars raged and battles were won and lost.

But they were also people, just like him. No less valid. No less useful.

And they were her family, she would fight for them tooth and claw, even if she barely had the strength to do so with her privilege and her sheltered life.

She had been made to feel useless far too many times, including this morning. She hoped that that would be the last.

Because if she could do anything, she could protect her own.

And she would. She always would.

She turned back to this man with her heart somewhat calmed, her tornado of emotions somewhat subdued by the brief period of silence that they had been allowed to enjoy. A respite, a chance to reflect.

The huntsman backed away, and the fennec crawled out of its corner.

They watched each other, huntsman looking into the wide, timid eyes of the once quaking fennec. It didn’t shiver anymore, it didn’t skulk away. It was as strong as the huntsman was weak.

And so the sword fell from her hand.

But she wasn’t done yet. There was one more thing she wanted to say, one more lesson to add to her already long lecture. 

She didn’t have him trapped anymore, she didn’t feel angry, or irritated, or defensive. But she had something she needed to say, something which would have bothered her to no end if it had never seen the light of day.

But why did she care so much? Why was she wasting her time on this man she didn’t know?

Because she did care. Because, even if she didn’t know him, she cared what he thought, what _everyone_ thought.

That was just how she was.

“If I may, Commander Cullen,” she began, and his brown eyes turned themselves towards her once again. This time, he looked far less icy, and far more uncomfortable. “I think you would do well to not pass judgement upon others, and certainly not to presume the worst of them.”

Beneath her gaze, he turned white, then pink, then red, in a brilliant display of colours that unfolded right before her eyes.

He knew she was right. He knew what he had done.

Finally, there had been an understanding between them. Finally, they were speaking the same language.

“Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind,” was all he had to say. And she was glad.

She didn’t have the strength for any more of this.

“I’ll...I’ll be getting back to work, then,” Cullen said to her, and it took all of her remaining strength not to sigh audibly in relief.

She smiled at him, and gave him a little wave of her hand. And then he was gone, mercifully. 

She was alone, Maker be praised, she was alone.

She was alone.

_Alone_.

It had been a long time since she had truly felt alone. When she was at home, she was busy, running her ex-husband’s estate and telling staff what to do. The staff were always there, some of them she knew so well that they were almost a part of her family.

Then she had her family. Claudette, her mother, Jennifer and her nephews. 

And Adelaide. _Adelaide_.

Here, she knew no one. Here, she had nothing to do. Here, she had no wild daughter to scold for tangling her hair or dirtying her dress.

Here, she was utterly, and truly, alone.

It was much harder than she could have imagined.

All the while, the Breach loomed ever larger. And as she stood there watching it, a lost soul standing before a chasm into a never ending void, another strange mire of emotions began to churn inside of her.

What was she still doing here? She was just a silly noblewoman from Ostwick who had chased her brother all the way until the end of the world not just in the name of duty, but in the name of her family. But, now that she was here, she had no idea what she was going to do with herself.

Because the truth was, her brother didn’t need her. Neither did any of these people. 

Perhaps Commander Cullen had been right. Perhaps he had been right to think that people like her brother didn’t fit in here.

Because she certainly didn’t.

Maker, she had to go home. She had to get out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Hope you all had a lovely holiday season and are all nice and refreshed! Updates will be coming semi-regularly again now that life is back to normal!


	7. Her Noble Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reeling from her conversation with Commander Cullen, Amelie begins to miss the family she left behind in Ostwick. But she came to Haven to find her brother and bring him home, and while she begins to think about returning home, he appears to be very reluctant to leave.

After she had said goodbye to the Commander, and he had returned to his duties that were so important to him, all that Amelie could think about was home.

_Home_. Home was warmth, and comfort, and joy amongst the people she cared about the most. Home was where she felt the happiest, where she had a role to play, where she knew everyone, and they knew her. Home was with her family: her parents, her sister, Adelaide. 

_Adelaide..._

She had come here out of a sense of duty, to her family, to her sister-in-law, to her brother. But now that she was here, she couldn’t but feel that her sense of duty had been misplaced. 

Wasn’t her duty with her own family? With Adelaide? Who had no one else to look out for her except herself?

Adelaide was difficult. She spent far too much of her time dreaming up stories about pirates and queens, instead of focusing upon her lessons; she was a lot like her uncle in that sense. She picked at her food like it was offensive to her, and almost never finished a full plate, perhaps like herself when she was a child picking at the vegetables she didn’t want to eat. She was given the prettiest dresses and had her hair was always made up for her by Helena’s skilled hands, and yet it would be covered in dirt by tea time, something which Claudette had done once as a child and learnt never to do again.

Adelaide wore her out, exhausted her, frustrated her. And yet, the very thought that she had left her, abandoned her duty to her to pursue it somewhere else, made her heart ache as it yearnt for a return to the place she called home.

_Home_...

Maker, what was she still doing here? Maker, why hadn’t she just turned around and gone straight home?

She didn't have an answer. She didn’t know why she was here, or what she was even meant to be doing now. She was lost, directionless, and, as the Commander had so eloquently put it the day before, she felt like a burden.

She had been kidding herself. Lionel didn't need her. No one here did.

Not as much as Adelaide needed her.

She wondered if he had ever felt the same way that she did. She wondered if, when he had first arrived here, he felt just as adrift, alone, lost, as she did now.

Perhaps he had. But even so, he certainly didn’t feel that way anymore. She had seen with her own eyes how easily he maneuvered about this place, how well he had established himself here, how he talked and laughed with these people as if they had been lifelong friends.

But her troubled mind told her that she could never hope to do the same.

She should have gone home straight away. She shouldn’t be here, she should never have stayed.

But Lionel was still here, and, surely, she couldn’t leave without him? Had she not promised her parents that she would bring him home, dead or alive? Had that not been her mission? She couldn’t abandon him now, not after she had come all this way.

“Hey, Amy!” Her brother’s cry was a mercy to her as it tore her from her troubled thoughts. She turned to find him, but it didn’t take long. He had hailed at her from a spot not too far away, from the ramshackled buildings that hugged the external walls of the village. The stables, of course. When was he ever not in the stables? “Come on over and meet Callie.”

She had very little desire to go over and meet the horse that towered even over his tall frame. But she couldn’t argue that she was pleased to see him. So, reluctantly, she wandered over to him, keeping a watchful eye on the stocky brown horse that peered over the rickety fence next to him. She had never been too keen on horses. She was a tall woman, it was unusual for things to be bigger than herself. Dogs were much more manageable.

“You told me you were doing important work here,” she told him with a smile, albeit one that was wary as her eyes remained focused on the large, lumbersome, beast that stood beside him. “Or is it just the horses you're staying here for?"

“I do, as it stands. And that’s exactly why I’m here,” he told her with a laugh, although he didn't look at her. His attention was on the horse, and the horse only, as he deflected from her questioning so tactfully. “We went and got ourselves some horses in Ferelden which, by the way, was probably the best excursion I’ve done so far with the Inquisition. She’s very sweet natured, but she doesn’t have Shan’s strength, nor Ellie’s personality.”

That was one way to put it, at least. She would have described his horse, Ellie, in a much different manner. She had personality, that much could be said. But she was also fiercely protective, and stubborn, and her ears would prick up and her eyes would narrow when anyone except her brother came near. No one else dared go near her. Jennifer only did so when she had to, although she was at the very least tolerated by the fiery mare. 

It was as if Ellie had been born a Trevelyan as well, she certainly acted like one.

“Here's an idea," he said, interrupting her thoughts with a boyish grin that caused her stomach to churn with dread. "Why don't we go out for a ride?"

"Oh, but I can’t, I don't have…" she began, but he wasn't listening. He often didn’t.

"You can borrow one," he said as he dismissed her with a shrug, but he must have noticed her discomfort as he said those words. “Oh don’t worry, I’d find you one that’s easy to handle,” he assured her. “Maybe Sera’s, she hates horses. So she has this little grey one that plods along at a snail's pace. It's really cute, actually."

She threw a scowl in his direction. “I can ride you know! I don’t need...baby-ing!”

“I know, I know!” He assured her with his hands raised in front of him in defeat. “Fine, we won’t. I just thought it would be a nice idea...” 

Relieved, she relaxed her shoulders and expelled a heavy sigh. She had escaped that one, at least. Now, she could get on with what she had come here to do, she could tell him that she was planning to...

All traces of relief vanished in an instant. 

His face was forlorn, although he tried hard to hide it. He had turned away from her, seeking a distraction in the form of the horse who stood in front of him as he stroked the fur on her long nose.

But she could see the pout on his lips, the disappointment in his eyes, the sadness behind the smile he had forced onto his face.

She sighed heavily. “Well...I guess we could,” she relented and she noticed how his forlorn expression had given away to an excitement that shone from deep within his hazel-green eyes . “But promise me you won’t do anything stupid? And we won’t go fast? You know I’m not very confident at–”

“Oh don’t be so boring,” he berated her with a roll of his eyes, dismissing her concerns with a wave of his hand and a scoff of disbelief.

It should have annoyed her, the way he had dismissed her with nothing but a shrug and a laugh. But it was just so...him. How could she be annoyed at him, when she had come so close to losing him? And when she was still uncertain as to whether she would lose him again?

So she said nothing when, in spite of her plea, he all but vaulted onto the horse as soon as a saddle was in place, and tore away from her with such speed that she would have missed him if she had dared to blink.

“Fuck me! Someone’s in a hurry!” A young elven woman, Sera, she gathered, watched her carefully with suspicious, beady eyes as she clambered onto the horse that she had lent to her. “Hey, listen to me, rich girl. You’d better look after Pops. If she comes back hurt, you’ll pay. I don’t like people messing with my things.”

Her eyes were narrow and beady, and her fingers graced the top of a sharpened arrow that lay in a holster on her back.

Despite the threat, Amelie smiled. It was the only thing she really knew how to do, to smile in the face of danger, like any good noble woman would. “Of course I will, don’t worry.”

Sera did not seem convinced. Her eyes remained just as suspicious, just as beady. But what did it matter? She’d be leaving as soon as she could, as soon as she could muster the courage to tell her brother that she wanted to go.

She set off at a much slower pace than her brother had adopted; he was well out of her sight by now. But she gathered that he had torn through the camp on his way out of the settlement, considering the bemused faces of all of those who had watched him race past. 

In comparison, they barely noticed her. Much slower, and much less interesting, perhaps. But as everyone shook their heads and returned to work, there was one person that continued to watch her.

Amongst them, she saw Commander Cullen, not too far away from where she had last spoken to him. He talked to the broad woman with the short dark hair, and they spoke in hushed tones with some urgency. But he tore his gaze away from her to watch Amelie as she strode past on her horse.

No one else noticed her, no one else cared to watch her as she walked past on a horse that was far too small for her. But over the woman’s shoulder, his golden brown eyes fell upon her, and, feeling somewhat exposed beneath his glare, she felt her cheeks beginning to burn.

“Hurry up!” Her brother’s insistent cry drew her attention back towards the task at hand and, soon enough, the Commander was far behind her. “Maker, why do you have to be so slow?”

“I’m not slow!” She told him defensively as she approached him carefully – he would argue, slowly. “Anyway, would you rather I be like Claudette?”

He spoke only after a moment of silence, reflection, as he thought about what she had said. “No, actually, you’ve got a point there, bless her,” he said with a fainthearted laugh that slipped into a sigh, his eyes becoming distant for the briefest of seconds. Then, he returned to her, as if nothing had happened, as if he had never been reminded of the sister he had left behind. “Come on, we’ll take our horses over to that abandoned cabin there and sneak around the back.”

He took off at a sprint before she could even dare to argue. It was a direction, rather than a suggestion.

But that was how he always had been. Her and her sister had always followed in his footsteps.

She was much slower than him, and yet it didn’t take her long to reach their destination, and she soon realised why. Despite the sanctuary that the surrounding trees provided them from prying eyes, she could still hear the clanging of swords against shields, the trundling of carriages and the whinnying of horses, the barking of orders within the soldiers camp.

“We can’t have gone very far,” she observed, as she brought her horse to a stop beside him, where he had already tied his horse up to a nearby tree.

“I know, but we can’t really go much further, I’m afraid,” he told her with a heavy sigh that seemed to reverberate through his entire body as it slumped in tandem with the expelling of his breath. “But it will do.”

He led her away from the cabin, abandoning the horses as they trudged through a heavy blanket of snow, her feet sinking into the soft, untouched flakes of powdery white ice while a cold wind battered at the exposed skin on her cheeks.

Haven was perpetually cold, she had discovered. But here, where no fires had been lit, where no cabins sheltered them from the wind, where no people shared their heat as they hustled and bustled along the winding paths, it was even colder.

And once the forest gave way to the shores of the frozen lake, it became even colder still. A chill wind blew amongst the trees, and their leaves scurried and chattered in its midst. It was beautiful, and it was quiet, peaceful. But that peace, that quiet, that beauty, was nothing but a mirage that disguised the chaos that permeated every inch of this space. 

On the far shore, which really wasn’t very far from them at all, she could almost hear the clatter and clang of swords hitting shields, of blacksmiths and carpenters hammering away at their crafts. And then there was the Breach, a chilling reminder of the otherworldly threat had been imposed upon their world as it stood ever present in the pale blue sky above their heads.

There was no peace and quiet to be found here, and very little beauty at all.

Maker, she wanted to go home.

“That’s one thing I really miss about home,” Lionel said suddenly, and she found herself almost jumping at the sound of his voice as it called out into the almost silence. “I miss being able to take off and just leave, whenever I want to. When I want to escape, I can just get Ellie and ride across a hundred acres of fields, losing myself in an endless sea of green fields, until I’m ready to go back.” There was a smile on his face once again, but this time, it was accompanied by a look of sorrow in his eyes. “I can’t do that here. I can never escape, even when I want to – or need to.”

She had nothing to say. She knew all about his...disappearances, of course. Jennifer had told her how he could be gone for hours, maybe even all day. He always came back though, eventually.

Then again, she could understand why he would want to escape from this place. There was the ever present flurry of soldiers and diplomats and solicitors who swarmed the Inquisition and fawned for their attention. Then there was the Breach, the thing on his hand, the duty he had been forced into.

What she didn’t understand, however, was what he meant when he said there was ‘no escape’. Because hadn’t she come all this way to bring him home? Hadn’t her appearance granted him that avenue of escape?

“Then why don’t you come home?” She asked him, turning to him with a look of hope that had blended with a heartfelt plea. But he did not return her gaze. He 

“I can’t believe you, of all people, are asking me that,” he said with a chuckle.

She furrowed her brows in confusion. “What do you mean by that?”

“Amy...” he said with another heavy sigh, turning towards her as he too turned his solemn gaze into a plea. “I can’t come home...”

Only the whistling of the wind in the trees filled the silence between them while, behind him, she saw the Breach continued to churn and spew its anger and its hatred.

“The price for my survival was this...thing,” he continued as he gestured to his left hand, which, for now, was dormant. But she remembered how angry it had looked on that first evening here, and she had no desire to see it behave in such a manner again. “And now I have to pay that price. I have a duty to use it to seal the Breach and save us all.” He turned to her then, and she saw a sadness in his eyes even in spite of the smile on his face. It was a face of regret. “Out of all of us, I’d expect you to understand that the most.”

She did understand, but that only made it harder for her to accept. Because he was right, he had to stay. He had a duty to perform, a mission. Just as she had done.

But she could not stay. Her duty lay in Ostwick, with her family, her daughter.

“That’s why I have to leave,” she told him then, and she felt his eyes bore into her. “I came here out of a sense of duty, but that duty doesn’t compel me to stay. I was meant to bring you home, but…” she paused, if only to expel a heavy sigh. “But if I can’t do that then, well, I need to go home. I have a duty to our family, to Adelaide”

“Adelaide…” he said after a moment of silence. Then, a sudden smile broke out upon his lips. “She’s so sweet. I can understand that,” he said to her relief. “But make sure to tell her, and tell Antony and Francis and everyone that...oh, I don’t know...”

“Or you could tell them yourself, one day,” she said with her last remaining glimmer of hope.

To her surprise, that hope paid off.

“One day,” he promised her, and a smile broke out on to both of their faces, almost in perfect synchronisation.

Her heart knew peace once again. It wasn’t exactly how it had been before, or how she wanted it. But he was right, he had a duty to fulfill. As did she. 

It just so happened that their duties meant they would be separated once again.

_One day..._

“I’m sorry to cut this short, but I do actually have to do some...well...important stuff today,” he told her with a reluctant smile upon his face, and a glimmer in his eyes that told her that he was hiding something. She knew him too well, and she knew when he was keeping secrets from here, especially because he was such a dreadful liar. “But we could meet each other after? Maybe at the tavern?”

A tavern? She would have laughed at the very notion if it hadn’t been for the sincerity in both his tone and his expression. Instead, she had to swallow that laugh and turn it into an enthusiastic smile.

“That would be nice,” she told him as she strained to keep the smile upon her face. Luckily for her, he wasn’t interested in analysing her expression today.

Because an evening in a tavern was quite possibly the worst way she could have imagined spending her final night with her brother. But it _was_ the final night and, well, she didn’t have it in her to say no. Not when he had looked so excited to suggest it to her, and not when she had no way of knowing when she would see him again. Or if...

So she smiled even wider, and turned her eyes towards the village on the farthest shore. The village that, Maker willing, she would soon be saying goodbye to.

But her joy at saying goodbye to the cold, dreary village of Haven, was met with an overwhelming tide of sorrow at the thought of leaving without her brother by her side.

She would be returning home with her duty unfulfilled, and her brother still in the clutches of an otherworldly threat. Maker, what was her father going to say when he found out.


	8. Evensong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the sun sets on Amelie’s brief stay in Haven, questions begin to arise and secrets begin to reveal themselves on what promises to be one of the longest nights of her life.

The Chantry at Haven was small, and cold; its oppressive grey stone walls only amplifying the chill, rather than protecting her from it.

That was where she waited for her brother to return on what was now her final day in Haven. That was where she continued to dream about home. 

One more night sleeping in the cold, dreary room she had been given. One more night moping around this Chantry which, although dreary, and dull, and so cold that she felt chilled to the bone, it remained the only building of some substance in this miserable village. One more night with the Inquisition, in a place where she so clearly didn’t belong.

Tomorrow, she would be gone. Tomorrow, she would be out of their way. Tomorrow, she would be heading home, to the place where she belonged, to where she was needed, wanted.

_Tomorrow_.

Maker, it seemed so far away

She was all too aware of all of the people who hurried past her as she waited, rushing to and fro with papers and swords and even tankards of ale. They were busy, all of them, doing important work to protect them all from the dangers that faced this world – except perhaps for the ones carrying ale. She saw Josephine rush past with a pile of parchment, and smiled at her as she went past. She was a sweet woman. Then there was Commander Cullen, who stood not too far away from her as he talked in hushed tones to soldiers who rushed about with his orders fresh in their heads. He wasn’t quite as sweet.

She kept her head down, kept her eyes away from him. She didn't feel like talking to him today, not after their conversation earlier had proved to be so exhausting. 

But she couldn’t help but listen. After all, she had little else to do while she waited. And it was proving to be a very long wait indeed.

“We have enough resources, Cullen, don’t worry,” she heard a soldier say to him, her ears pricking up ever so slightly at the sound of a Starkhaven accent. Her grandfather sounded just like that, although a little less harsh upon the ears – her mother did too once she had had too much to drink that she could no longer keep up the facade. “And if the Herald is successful tonight then we won’t need to worry anymore, will we?”

“_If_ he is successful. There’s a big _if_ there, Rylen,” Cullen told him, and she could picture the scowl that must be drawn upon his face right now. “And_ if _he is, then more will continue to arrive each day. It won’t stop them. If anything, it will encourage them! And it’s the family’s, the children. _Why _anyone would drag their children all the way up here with _that_ in the sky above us, I couldn’t tell you...”

Her heart skipped a beat, and then it started to beat so fast again that she couldn’t help but let out an audible squeak that she tried desperately to disguise with a loud cough.

But it was too late, her mind had begun to spiral.

Family. Her parents, Claudette, Jennifer. Children. Her nephews, Adelaide.

_Adelaide…_

She’d be with them soon. She’d be home. Tomorrow, she’d leave this place. Tomorrow, she’d be travelling on the path that would lead her home.

_Adelaide_…

A loud cough roared through the Chantry as it echoed off of the old stone walls and the high vaulted ceilings. It was so loud, so uncouth, that it made her jump.

Turning around to find the source, she realised who’s attention she had drawn, and it was quite possibly the one who’s attention she had least wanted to attract.

“Lady Hargrove?” 

She stood frozen to the spot in front of him, while the air around her appeared to grow even colder than it had been before.

Maker, was he really speaking to her?

“Is everything alright?” 

He wasn’t just speaking to her. He was.asking after her, checking on her.

No, he couldn’t be. It was so....out of character.

Perhaps he was just being polite. But he hadn’t been concerned with politeness yesterday. 

“Yes, thank you. I was just a bit lost in my thoughts,” She said as she watched him with narrowed eyes, as if she was waiting for some kind of punchline. But it never came. She watched him even more closely, searching those golden brown eyes for a hint of his formerly steely gaze. But there was none.

She could have left it there. She could have wandered off, found someone else to talk to. Perhaps she could have found Josephine again.

But he continued to look at her with that concern in his gaze, and she couldn’t bring herself to brush him away. After all, it would have been rude to have done.

“I was just thinking about my daughter,”

His concern turned to embarrassment, shame. Perhaps he thought he had insulted her earlier.

“Oh...I didn’t know you had a daughter,” He said quietly, his eyes falling to the floor beneath his feet while his hand reached around to the back of his neck. She had seen him do that before, perhaps it was a nervous habit. “I didn’t mean anything earlier, I just…”

“No, it’s fine. You were right, I wouldn’t have brought her here even if I had known that my brother was alive,” she said with a smile on her face that was intended to encourage. After all, he had reached out to her, had tried so hard to begin to heal the hurt from the morning before. How could she not do the same? And besides, her mother always said it was rude not to smile. “She’s called Adelaide, after...well, that doesn’t matter really. She’s five years old, and a bit wild – or adventurous, I should say. She’d love it here, with all of this space to run around and play, and the freedom to do so without all of us berating her for getting her dress dirty.”

He was silent for a little while, while his entire body seemed to freeze in front of her eyes. And in his silence, she waited. Although she wasn’t sure what for. She didn’t need him to respond, she didn’t need him to care. She didn’t even know him.

And yet, she had cared enough to tell him about Adelaide. But then she would have spoken to anyone about her right now; she would have told the whole world about her wild daughter if she could.

“Well, perhaps you can bring her with you when you next visit?” When he did speak, it shocked her so deeply that she was all but swept off of her feet and cast onto the stone floor beneath her. It would have been so easy for him to not have cared, to have dismissed her. So many others had. Even her own husband hadn’t taken such an interest in her – or Adelaide, for that matter.

So despite it all, despite everything they had said to one another that morning, despite all of the criticism he had laid at her and her brother’s feet, she found herself smiling.

He looked almost as taken aback as she had been, his voice a jumble of stammering words as a red tide flared within his cheeks. “That is...if you ever–”

He fell into silence, his words trailing off into a silence that had fallen upon all those who had gathered in the Chantry on that night. They all stopped in their tracks. No one moved, no one spoke, no one breathed. The world had come to a halt. All eyes turned towards the large wooden doors that protected them from the bitter chill of the mountain air.

Then, a loud cheer erupted from the world outside, and it soon spread inside too.

The silence in this new world had shattered within moments of its inception, and all at once, everyone began to whisper and talk with such excitement that it left her confused, feeling as if she had missed something important, something exciting. Curious she pushed her way into the crowd and fought her way towards the doors with little dignity, little grace. There was no room for grace or dignity here. 

She had left that at the front gate with her pretty dress and beautifully styled hair.

Outside, it was dark. Darker than it had been on any of the previous nights that she had spent here. 

The sky was black, and it was empty, save for the splattering of stars that reigned triumphant in a sky that was void of any clouds, any storms, any magic that swirled angrily around an endless void. The Breach: it was gone. 

It was strange to her, seeing a jet black sky with no hint of green, with no angry, churning mass of violent storm clouds to marr the horizon. Her eyes scanned a pitch black sky, tracing every star, every cloud, every snowflake which danced through the air towards her to grace her pale skin and settle amongst the splattering of freckles upon her face.

The night was black. The sky was clear. All was as it should be.

It was as if nothing had happened, as if no storm had ever passed, as if no Breach had ever been conjured.

Still, unmoving, beautiful. It was...beautiful.

“There you are! I was just coming to look for you,” at the sound of her brother’s voice, her eyes turned away from the Breach to find him approaching her with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. 

“The Breach…”

“I know right!” He beamed down at her with a tone that made him sound far too pleased with himself. “Not bad for a day’s work, if I may say so myself. And Cullen said it wouldn’t work...bloody idiot.”

She looked him up and down. There wasn’t a hint of dirt or blood or dust on him. Only a layer of powdery white snow that covered his calves, and a slight hint of a strong wind that had disturbed his well combed strands of red hair.

Her eyes travelled towards the sky once again, where a now flawless, perfect splattering of stars spread across the sea of deepest black. There was no Breach to mar its elegance, no churning green clouds to rage above their heads.

Within an afternoon, it was gone.

“But, how?” She asked him as she turned to him in disbelief. “I was talking to you earlier and–”

“Well I _did_ say I had stuff to do today, remember?” he said to her with a smile that was smug and teasing. But that didn’t last long. A rare hint of sincerity made itself known upon his face as he began to explain himself. “I just...I didn’t want to tell you what we were doing. In case, I don’t know, in case it didn’t work, and you got your hopes up that I’d be coming home and then I couldn’t–”

Amelie’s eyes widened, and she blurted out the words before she could hope to stop them.. “So you could come home now? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? You could come home?”

“Well, maybe not _right_ now...” he told her as he avoided her incessant gaze, but her excitement wasn’t about to fade. With the absence of the Breach, the chains that shackled her brother to this place were now gone. “There’s going to be some clearing up to do. A lot of it, I imagine. But...I don’t know...maybe?.”

Suddenly, the cold, the loneliness, the feeling of being out of place, they didn’t matter. Tomorrow, she would be leaving this place. She would be going home, and now he wouldn’t be too far behind her. They’d be home. Together. Where they belonged.

She could even stay a bit longer, wait for him…

No. She couldn’t. She had to get home.

“Well, I’m sure Jennifer will be very happy to hear that,” she told him with a smile. But, to her surprise, he didn’t return it.

Instead, he frowned, while all trace of excitement or happiness vanished from his eyes. “Are you sure about that?”

Bemused, Amelie turned to him with a frown of her own. “Well, why would she not be?” She asked him, but a cry from within the crowd cut off any response she was hoping to receive.

But while the interruption dragged her brother away from her scrutiny, her frown did not fade.

“Coming to the tavern, your lordship-ness?” Sera had seemingly come out of nowhere to assail them while a bearded man stood besides her with a tankard already in hand. Then, Sera came to a stop abruptly, her eyes falling upon Amelie as a grin broke out on her lips. “Oh, and maybe you could bring your pretty sister with you too?”

_Pretty?_

No, she must have misheard. Claudette was the pretty one...

“Yeah, we’re coming now,” Lionel told them, abandoning the scrutiny that Amelie had laid upon him. Although she had been a bit too distracted by Sera’s comment to pick him up on it. 

_Pretty..._

“Great!” Sera rubbed her hands with glee, her gaze remaining upon Amelie even as they started to make their way through the crowds and towards the tavern. “You can sit next to me if you want, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Amelie had no response. Her mouth hung open uselessly as she stumbled for words.

She wanted to buy her a drink. She thought she was pretty. Maker, this was something very, very, new to her.

“Hey, stop flirting with my sister!” Her brother responded for her, and while she was relieved at his intervention, she was also a little bit frustrated. She was a grown woman, she could have handled it herself...

“What? It’s not my fault your sister’s fit!” Sera cried in indignation as she scurried along to catch up with him, leaving Amelie to throw a look of bewilderment at the back of her head.

She thought she was…’fit’?

Maybe she couldn’t handle it…

Oh Maker, she did not belong here.

“You can’t talk, anyway! I saw you at the armoury yesterday drooling all over Dorian–” Sera continued without her, running off down another thread of conversation that, mercifully, had nothing to do with her.

It was only then that her cheeks had stopped burning.

Because then she realised what she had just said about her brother.

“What? No I wasn’t!” 

“You _so_ were!”

“She’s got a point, you know,” the bearded man piped up from out of nowhere, bringing their bickering, and their march towards the tavern, to a halt. “You’ve been all over each other like a rash ever since you got back from Redcliffe.”

Amelie watched her brother face during this interrogation, but he didn’t return her gaze. In fact, he did everything he could to avoid it while his cheeks began to turn a very telling shade of red.

“That’s…I was just…Whatever, I’m getting a drink.”

He turned away from them and marched towards the door of the tavern, leaving Amelie to follow briskly as Sera’s cackles only grew, and the bearded man scoffed and spluttered into a series of badly disguised laughs.

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. It was difficult for her to laugh at such a thing, not when the wife he had left behind had been like a sister to her, not when she had been so worried. 

No wonder he had seemed so flustered.

Maker, did either of them really belong here? Maker, they needed to go home.

In spite of her protestations, she remained silent as she followed them into the tavern, and it surprised her how the momentary horror at entering such a crowded and noisy environment was replaced by a sense of comfort. There was laughter, and cheering, and singing, in every corner of this place. It drowned out all other noise; while they were here, no hint of the outside world could make itself known.

It was a bubble of joy and laughter in an unpleasant, cold, village, in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps that was why she found herself lowering her guard just a little bit.

The world outside meant little to them all, and to her. She could almost forget about the cold, and the dark, and how out of place hse felt here. 

Because in a place such as this, where no one paid any attention to you, and yet never made you feel alone, how could she feel out of place?

A voice called to them from amidst the throng, hailing from a table in the centre of the room that was by far the busiest, and noisiest. Some of the faces were recognisable to her, Josephine, Leliana, Cassandra who, even now, in a rickety, dingey old tavern with a beer in her hand, was wearing her armour with pride. 

“Hey! What’s the weather like up there, Lanky?” The one who spoke, however, was not familiar to her. A short man – no, a dwarf. 

The reply he received was brisk, but not unamused. Practised, but not wholly welcoming. He had heard that a thousand times before, it seemed. “Cold.”

“As per usual,” the dwarf said with a shrug, before turning to Amelie with his dark eyes beady and inquisitive. “Who’s the lady? I didn’t know err.._.she_...was your type.”

“What? No! She’s my sister, Varric,” He looked over at her momentarily with a look of disgust, and it took every ounce of her willpower not to hit him.

“How did you not get that, Varric?” Josephine asked him as she gestured towards the two of them with wild, flailing arms. “I mean, look how similar they are.”

“We’re really not,” she said in perfect tandem to her brother, who turned to scowl at her just as she went to do the same.

“Hey! So, are all of your family redheads, or…?” The deep, booming voice appeared to be coming from the large Qunari with the equally large horns that protruded out of his head almost at right angles. Maker, she had never seen a Qunari so large...

“No, they aren’t,” Lionel sighed heavily. “I’m getting a drink. Amy, do you want one? You can have beer...or...actually, that’s all we have."

“Oh don’t be so ridiculous!” A woman sat next to Josephine, and she all but shone in the light of the flickering torches, with a silver dress that dazzled Amelie even as she hid beneath a snow white cape. She was somewhat recognisable to Amelie, but she couldn’t place where she would know her from. “Come and sit next to me, dear. You can have some of my wine.”

“Where did you get that from Vivienne?” Her brother asked her, and that was when it clicked in Amelie’s mind.

Vivienne de Fer. It had to be. She had seen her before, so many times, when she’d gone to parlours and balls and masquerades in Orlais. But she had never spoken to her before; she normally avoided speaking to anyone at those events if she could help it.

“I brought it with me from Orlais,” She told him with a nonchalant shrug as she poured Amelie’s glass out before she had even had the chance to squeeze in between her and Josephine.

“Well you could have offered it around,” He said to her with a look on his face that was almost a sulk. He looked just like Antony.

“And why would I want to do that?” She asked him simply, and unbelievably, it was enough to shut him up. Maker, she needed to learn how she did that. “Now run along and order your drink while I have a chat with your very beautiful sister.”

_Beautiful_. Now that really was a step too far.

“Wait! Get one for me too!” Sera cried from her perch on the edge of the table, grinning wildly when her request was acknowledged with a reluctant groan.

But she wasn’t concerned with what was happening on the far end of the table. She sat between Josephine and Vivienne, and a glass of wine was being passed into her hand before she could even hope to protest. Suddenly, a smile had crept onto her face. Suddenly, this tavern didn’t seem quite so horrible.

“Thank you so much for the wine, Vivienne,” she said with a smile, comforted by the gentleness in her tone and the sweetness in her dark eyes.

“That’s alright, dear,” she smiled back at her, and it was so warm and welcoming that the cold outside suddenly seemed much further away. “Now I know of you, of course, but I don’t think we’ve ever talked, have we?” Her smile only grew, and Amelie’s grew with it. “I’ve never been to Ostwick. That’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I have land in Ostwick,” she told her, but she quickly shook her head. “Sorry it’s my late-husband’s estate, actually. Not mine. It’s to the north of the city at the base of the Vimmark mountains.”

“I am very sorry to hear about your husband,”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, and dismissively. She didn’t need any sympathy then and she didn’t need it now. “It was about three years ago now and he was always prone to catching things.”

“Some people just are, I guess,” she said with a degree of sympathy. But, mercifully, she didn’t linger upon the subject. “But – forgive me if this is insensitive and do tell me to mind my own business if I’ve overstepped – is the estate not yours now?”

Amelie paused for some time, her mouth hanging open as she stared down into Vivienne’s warm brown eyes. “Well...I...I guess it is. I hadn’t really thought of that before…”

“And I’m sure your political influence didn’t come solely from him, did it?” It was a question, but it wasn’t. She was telling her, not asking her. Amelie was speechless. “I mean, you’re a well established woman in your own right, aren’t you?”

“Vivienne, you should see the contacts she gave me,” Josephine leant over her to lay a series of excited taps on Vivienne’s arm. “We really owe you for that, Lady Amelie.”

She turned to Josephine with uncertainty in her glare. “You found them helpful, then?”

“Oh they will definitely be helpful!” Josephine emphasised “I can’t thank you enough!”

“You’re welcome,” a smile began to blossom on her lips, growing in tandem with the smiles on the two women’s faces as she revelled in the companionship she had found with them.

And tomorrow, she would be gone. Just like that, all of these people she had met would be gone from her lives. 

She was beginning to regret being so hasty. Maybe she should have stuck it out...

“Oh sod this, I’m getting my own drink,” Sera was shrieking from the other end of the table again, and Amelie was reminded of why she had wanted to leave in the first place. This place was just so...weird. “I’ll be here forever waiting for those two posh gits to stop cooing over each other.”

A raucous rumble of laughter erupted from the table around her, and that was what drew Amelie’s gaze from one person, to another, until she looked deep into all of their laughing faces.

What were they laughing at? What did she mean?

She turned away from them all, her eyes roaming around the small, crowded tavern as she searched for the source of their amusement.

Then she found it, and she wished she hadn’t. 

She saw her brother leaning against the bar, somewhat awkwardly with his long, gangly limbs, and she saw him smile as he talked to the man next to him between sips of his beer. He would talk, then smile, and then maybe laugh, and then take another sip. Then it would start again. An endless cycle of joy, amusement, and then a sip of his drink.

He was relaxed, content, happy. It was rare to see him in such a manner. She watched him gesture to a stray buckle upon the other man's coat, toying it with his fingers as he watched him with teasing eyes.

He didn’t seem to notice the rest of the tavern. Perhaps he didn’t want to.

Because as she watched him smile, and she watched him laugh, and she watched the way he stared down at the other man with warmth in his eyes, she knew now what everyone had been laughing at. She knew now where Sera’s crass comments had come from.

But she didn’t laugh with the rest of them. Instead, she watched in horror.

He had never looked at Jennifer like that, she knew that much. He had never been that relaxed around her. They had never joked and laughed and teased. And if she were to be honest with herself she had never seen him as happy as he was now, in this bar, in Haven, in the Inquisition, and with whoever this man was.

But he would come home soon, that's what he had said. He'd be home, with his family, with all of them. 

All of this would be behind them. It would be like nothing had happened, like he had never gone to the Conclave.

Or would it?

She had believed that earlier. But now, she struggled to conjure that same level of faith she had held before. She saw now, right in front of her eyes, how happy he was here, how easily he had fallen into this new life. 

And now, it was as if he were forgetting the life he left behind.

He had been here far too long. 

But what, in the name of the Maker, could she do about it? What could she do about...this?

She made her excuses and left the tavern far too quickly, slipping past her brother unnoticed as he appeared to shut out the world around him in pursuit of his desires.

He didn’t even notice her leave. 

Maker, what was she going to do? Maker, she needed to go home.

_He_ needed to go home. He said he would, and she had to hold him to that. For his sake, for Jennifer’s sake, for her family’s sake.

She burst out of the tavern and into the cold, dark, night. Compared to the loud cacophony of the tavern, Haven was peaceful, and quiet. Flurries of snow danced in the air around her, and the rustle of the brisk mountain wind charging through the trees filled the silence of the near empty village with a low, rumbling roar.

She paused just outside of the tavern, taking a deep breath as she rummaged through her scambled thoughts and tried to make sense of them.

There had been so much she hadn't understood about this whole situation, so many questions that Lionel had failed to answer. 

Why hadn't he written home? Why had he been so keen to stay? 

Why had he seemed so uncomfortable at the mention of Jennifer's name?

_I'm sure Jennifer will be very happy to hear that._

_Are you sure about that?_

Now, she had an idea why. She had to ask him. She needed to know, from him. She had to know what he wanted. He had to tell her the truth.

_Tomorrow. _It would have to be tomorrow. 

She sighed in resignation, abandoning her thoughts as she went to trudge her way towards the Chantry.

One more night here. One more night in that room, that Chantry, in this miserable, cold place.

Her next sigh was one of relief. Her breath expelled from her mouth in a cloud of vapour that climbed high into the black sky, where the stars splattered across the neverending void in an intricate pattern that she followed with her eyes, down and down towards the horizon where she could have sworn she saw a curious, red glow.

She paused. She listened. All she could hear was the sound of her breath as she inhaled, exhaled, while the wind howled through the leaves on the trees in a thundering roar.

Except there was no wind. The braid in her hair was stationary, no wind tickled at the skin of her cheeks or teased the hems of her borrowed coat.

She turned back towards the Tavern, and she listened again. 

The roar grew louder.

"Lady Hargrove! Lady Hargrove!" A deep voice barked at her from the path ahead, and she turned to find its owner racing towards her from behind a veil of powdery snow.

She knew that voice, though.

"Commander Cullen?" She called out to him, while her mouth fell into a smile. "Is everything alright?"

"Where is he? Where's your brother? The Herald?" He was urgent, and in his urgency, he stammered and spluttered and darted his eyes around every corner of Haven.

He hardly even looked at her, so encompassed by the mission he was on. Whatever that might be.

"He's in the tavern," she told him with concern in her voice as dread flooded the pit of her stomach. What did he want? Why was he so frantic? So desperate?

A series of loud bangs sounded from somewhere outside of the village walls, and the two of them shared a fearful, wide eyed look.

Cullen bolted into the tavern, and Amelie found herself following suit.

The tavern was still filled with laughter, and cheering, and singing, just as it had been before. But she couldn’t feel any joy in this place, not anymore. Not with the urgency in Cullen’s tone, and nor with the reminder of why she had fled as they approached her brother at the bar with that same man from before.

"There's an army at the gates," he barked between panting, desperate breaths, as he ran towards the bar and clutched at her brother’s arm, while he looked down at him with a smile that was quickly fading.

The tavern fell into silence around her. But outside of those rickety wooden walls, Haven roared.


	9. Dragon Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire engulfs Haven as an army threatens its citizens while Amelie waits in the Chantry for her brother and his companions to return.

The tavern lay silent beneath a thick, heavy shroud of fear that shielded them all from a world outside that was far from it. An ever persistent roar cried out from beyond the rickety old wooden walls, and Amelie could feel the ground beneath her feet quiver in its wake.

Or perhaps she was just scared. The rest of them were. No one spoke. No one acknowledged Cullen’s cries.

No one dared to.

They all watched, waited, holding their breaths in anticipation as they waited for someone, anyone, to tell them what to do, to deliver them from the evil that waited for them. All eyes fell upon the area in front of the bar, where the two men faced each other staring endlessly as they each waited for the other to make the first move. 

Someone had to take that step. Someone had to face the enemy that was, quite literally, beating at their door.

For all of Cullen’s posturing the day before, it did not surprise her in the slightest when it was not him, but her brother, who took that step, who took the burden from his hands, even as she saw the fear in his eyes that mirrored Cullen’s own. 

But who else would do it? Who else but him?

He had always been that way, taking on the burdens that he didn’t want his other – his sisters, mostly – to bear. It was only natural for the eldest to do such a thing, but she knew as well that he liked to be the one that everyone looked to, the one to solve everyone’s problems and shoulder all of their burdens. Because then he could enjoy being the most important person in the room, the smartest, the bravest, the one with responsibility and respect.

But even though she wasn’t surprised to hear him talk first, she was surprised when she heard the words he had chosen to speak.

“So, what do we do?” Lionel asked him, and that’s when Amelie turned to study her brother’s expression.

It hadn’t moved, much. It was still, and almost unreadable. But there had been something in his voice that had given it away.

Fear. Fear had overtaken any desire he may have had to be at the center of their attention. She could tell in the way that his stance had become tense, in the way that his voice had been strained, and in the way that he had so uncharacteristically admitted his own ignorance.

His face had become hidden beneath an impenetrable mask; she knew all too well how that looked. She hoped her own was holding firm.

“I’m...I’m sorry?” Cullen asked him, himself gripped by the throes of fear as he stammered and stuttered with a voice that cracked almost in tandem with a loud raucous that sounded from outside.

Amelie didn’t want to know what that noise had been. 

“Well that is your expertise is it not?” Lionel asked him with his voice raising both in pitch and in volume. Desperation was laden in his increasingly frantic tone; fear had truly taken hold. “Isn’t that what you’ve said to me at every meeting since I’ve arrived? Have you not reminded me at every opportunity that that is your field of expertise, and not mine?” Cullen’s pale complexion flushed with a hint of red. “And I hate to admit this, but maybe you’ve been right to do so. So please say you have some kind of plan for how to deal with this. Because I don’t. I don’t know what to do.”

Cullen’s unease appeared to lift, his eyes fixated upon those that flittered between emerald green and chestnut brown with his gaze turned sharp, his jaw set. He was in his element, while Amelie’s heart began to race at his admission.

He had always looked after her, her older brother. He had taken her hand so many times when they had been children and helped her, showed her that the things that seemed scary were, in fact, safe.

But now, it appeared that the things that seemed scary were, in fact, scary. He wouldn’t be able to take her hand and tell her it was going to be OK. He wouldn’t be able to keep her safe.

Because he was just as scared as the rest of them.

She never thought she would be so grateful for Cullen’s steely nature, but suddenly, she was. He was the only one in the room who had held himself together, whose expression was familiar. That was somewhat comforting.

A noblewoman’s armour was her dress, her make-up, her lovely smile and her polite airs. That wasn’t any good here. That wouldn’t keep her safe from the army that was knocking at their door.

Cullen’s straight forward, practical mind may now be their key to survival.

“We go out and meet them,” Cullen said simply, with little but then his eyes drifted across the tavern, scanning the faces within the crowd that surrounded them. Then, his eyes fell upon her, and she felt him connect with her gaze almost as if her emerald green eyes had drawn him there. “Well, not all of us.” He turned back towards her brother. “Those who aren’t...fit...to defend Haven should retreat to the Chantry. It’s the largest building, and possibly the sturdiest.”

“Right, you all heard him. Anyone that isn’t too pissed can come with us. The rest of you can stay behind,” Lionel put his tankard onto the bar beside him with a heavy thud, looking around the tavern as he did so to take in their startled faces. “Well come on! Maker’s sake, we haven’t got all day…”

Something had changed there and then, the dynamic suddenly so different to how it had been before. Cullen’s experienced mind had reeled off their strategy, had potentially saved them all from the horrors ahead. But no one moved, no one spoke, no one even blinked, until her brother had called them to arms.

They listened to him, unanimously, trusting him even with something as precious as their lives. 

He had slipped into this role so easily, that it was getting harder with each passing second for Amelie to imagine him in their former lives.

No, she mustn't. This was temporary, a minor setback, if that. They’d be going home soon...

“Josephine, would you take my sister to the Chantry?” She heard her brother ask as he made his way towards them, but his eyes stayed away from her own. He hardly even looked at her, let alone given her the chance to argue against his command. 

As if she would have wanted to. 

Josephine simply nodded. It appeared as if there was little space for anyone to argue with her brother, and it appeared as if no one wanted to.

They trusted him, and in spite of his earlier criticism, he appeared to trust Cullen. 

But she did not, she didn’t know Cullen, didn’t trust him. Not enough to keep her family from harm, not enough to simply walk away and let him lead her brother into the jaws of death.

She heard a clap of thunder roar outside of the tavern. It was loud, so loud it shook her to her very core.

Or was it something else? Something more menacing?

She fled, storming out into the cold, Haven night. She was met with panic in a place that, in a place that had not so long before been so calm. But not anymore; the place was riddled with fear, and heavy with a sense of impending doom. 

In the distance, she saw her brother at the head of a crowd who marched towards the gates. She wanted to call after him. Maker, she should have stopped him in the tavern, when she had had the chance. But her voice had failed her.

Maker, all she had wanted was to go home, and all she had wanted was for him to come with her.

They should have left together, right at the start, as soon as she had come here. 

But now, there was an army at the gates, and he was walking towards them, while she walked away.

What if he didn’t come back? What if she had been so lucky to have found him here alive, only to let him walk so stubbornly towards his death?

Maker, what had she done? What _could_ she have done?

No one else had questioned his will back in the tavern, so why should she have done?

Because he was her brother, and she had been tasked with bringing him home. No army was going to get in the way of that. No army was going to take him away from her. 

She took one uncertain step onto that path, the one that followed her brother down towards those gate, and then she found herself taking another, and another. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She couldn’t fight, she couldn’t defend herself, she could barely even climb the staircase of her home without being short of breath. But she had to do something, anything.

Something stopped her, a tug upon her arm. Fear had been replaced with fire, with anger.

She turned, tearing her arm out of its hold as she did so. But the fire in her eyes dimmed once she saw who was waiting for her.

Josephine, who had such a sweet face that almost always held such a gentle smile, stood in front of her with nothing but kindness in her eyes.

In spite of it all, Amelie softened, entranced by Josephine’s calming gaze.

“Lady Amelie?” she said with her smile intact, with only the deepest depths of her warm brown eyes betraying any hint of fear. Maker, how did she keep it together? How well constructed was the mask that hid her fear from the world? It put Amelie’s to shame. “Should we go to the Chantry?”

A loud bang was heard from far away – but not far enough. Fear rose from deep within her, threatening to overcome her. In an instant, Amelie grabbed Josephine’s hand, that lifeline that had been offered to her, and let herself be led into the Chantry, to safety. 

How could she have been so stupid as to let those thoughts overcome her? How could she have thought to do anything but run away from the danger and hide, waiting to be rescued?

She was not like her brother, and he was not like her, that was becoming clearer by the day.

“Many have come here already – that’s good,” Josephine murmured to herself as she Amelie into the Chantry that, not so long before, had been a place of sanctuary. But there was a different atmosphere in there tonight. 

No one spoke. All they could do was shiver as the cool wind passed over them, and jump at every sound that permeated its walls.

That same fear, that same panic, that same dread, had seeped even into the realm of the holy Andraste, and Amelie certainly did not feel safe even beneath her blessed gaze.

There was no sanctuary here tonight.

“Well, I guess it was bold of us to presume that closing the Breach could be that easy…” Josephine said to her with her voice straining to be as lighthearted and optimistic as it could. 

Amelie did not answer her; no words would pass her lips.

Fear had taken hold of her. 

Maker, she wanted to go home. 

She turned back towards the door again, but something stopped her. Josephine’s hand was on her upper arm, and more words tumbled out of her mouth in an effort to distract her.

Amelie was glad for the distraction.

“You know, you do your hair so beautifully,” she was told by an overly enthusiastic Josephine, who held the bottom of her braid in her delicate hands as she spoke. 

Amelie was taken aback enough by compliment to feel a hint of joy, a smile creeping onto her lips as she allowed herself to relish in the rarest of compliments. “Thank you, but my brother did it for me, actually.”

Her smile fell, and so did Josephine’s, if only for a second.

“Oh, I see,” she said, dropping the braid from her hand as her eyes drifted over Amelie’s shoulder once again, towards the door that Amelie so desperately wanted to turn to. “He’ll be alright you know, he always is. I mean, they survived Redcliffe, they even survived travelling in _time_. Unless he was having us on about that one…”

“What?” Amelie turned to Josephine in confusion, forgetting about the outside world for some time. “What do you mean, _travelled in_ _time_?”

“Apparently, yes!” She cried with her smile once again returning to her lips. “I suppose he didn’t tell you about that. Probably didn’t want to worry you.”

“That sounds like him,” Amelie said with a roll of her eyes and the traces of a smile.

“Honestly, it would drive me mad if any of my siblings were like that,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “I imagine that’s why he didn’t write to you before. Or, well, that was _some_ of it, anyway. He wasn’t being malicious or anything, he just didn’t want you to worry.”

“I know, but…” Amelie began with a sigh of her own, but then her expression evolved into a frown. “Sorry, what do you mean by _some_?”

“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not right to spread rumours,” she became uncomfortable, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks as her eyes drifted away from hers. “But, well, you saw it with your own eyes tonight, and you can’t stop people from talking, I’m afraid.” 

Josephine looked concerned, with a furrow forming on her brow as her lips pursed and her eyes became narrow and steely.

“What do you–?”

A loud bang erupted from behind her, and her question fell away from her lips and into the realm of distant memory.

She turned away from Josephine’s troubled gaze, forgetting it just as easily as she had forgotten her line of questioning. Because in the doorway, set against the darkness of the night, was her brother, standing amidst his new friends.

Except the darkness behind him wasn’t as dark as it had been before. There was a glow, an orange glow that had seeped its way into every inch of the night sky and left them all to bask in its glory.

But she paid it no heed.

“Hey, Lionel, you’re alright!” She cried. But as she approached, she looked up into his face and saw that she had spoken in haste.

He wasn’t alright. He was far from it. There were scratches and cuts on his face that were marred by a layer of dirt and dust. No, it was soot. Then she saw the burn marks near his hairline, the charred fabric of his sleeve.

Her eyes looked out of the door into the night, and she saw that glow again, shrouded by a heavy plume of smoke that billowed towards them and clawed at the back of her throat.

It was fire.

She could hear it now, the crackling of the flames against old, dried out wood. She could see the orange glow that was tinted with a plume of grey smoke, that wafted through the air and billowed in through the opened Chantry doors. She could smell it, the fire, the burning; it was heavy, acrid, with a hint of something far more sinister underneath.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

A screech pierced the air outside as a fresh burst of fire rained down upon the village in front of her. There was a scream, there was a cry.

Then there was a voice behind her, one she hadn’t heard before.

“It looked like an Archdemon,” it was a voice that sounded like a song, and it was the most haunting of melodies. It’s owner hid beneath a hat that was far too big for them, and they crouched beside a wounded man who’s Chantry robes were stained with blood. “I’ve seen one before, in the Fade...”

“It doesn’t matter what it looks like!” Cullen interrupted with his voice booming with anger while, outside, another screech erupted from behind a new burst of flame. 

“Cullen! Could you _please_ shut up the fuck up and let the kid speak?” Lionel’s angry glare only lasted a second or two, but it worked, and Cullen shrunk away with a wounded expression on his face. “Why do you think an Archdemon here? Where would it have...come from?”

“The Elder One,” the song continued, and Amelie watched it play out from beneath that oversized hat before turning back to her brother once again, looking for an answer just as they had all done in the tavern 

Fear was in his eyes once again. Dread was in the setting of his jaw, and terror quaked within his blackened, smoke covered fingers.

“He came here for the Herald. He doesn’t care about the village, or anyone else. He just wants the Herald.”

_The Herald._

Amelie turned to her brother once again, as did Cullen, and the rest of them. They all stood in a Circle and watched the fear in his eyes turn to understanding, to horror, to defeat.

Once again, they waited for an answer. Once again, they waited for their orders.

Once again, Amelie waited for an explanation. But she didn’t want one. Because for the first time since she had arrived here, she understood something perfectly.

The Herald. He came here for the Herald.

He came here for her brother. He came here to kill him.

Maker, they had to get out of here...

“Cullen...can you get everyone out?” 

This time, they all turned to Cullen for their answer. But Cullen didn’t answer him. He didn’t have to, apparently.

All he had to do was nod.

Amelie erupted, her eyes flitting between the pair of them as she challenged one of them to answer her. “What do you mean?”

She was ignored.

“There’s a passage at the back of the Chantry. Andraste must have showed it to me…” The Chantry man with the bloodstained robes strained to speak, but he had given them all a lifeline, a chance.

“Then let’s go!” Amelie said with a sigh of relief, but there was no relief in her brother’s eyes. Only dread.

“Cullen,” he turned to Cullen once again with his words barely audible above the roaring of the flames and the bustling of the crowds inside the Chantry. “Take everyone through this passage and get them out of here.” He stopped, but only for a second. “And look after my sister for me, won’t you?”

Cullen was silent for a time, watching him carefully. Studying him, almost. Then, he nodded.

He understood his task, he understood the weight of his words. And so did she.

Cullen had turned away from them, ushering out the crowds with a booming command, his determination driven by his fear, by the urgency of his task. And they all listened, allowing themselves to be shepherded towards the back of the Chantry at the sound of his insistent bellows.

“Go with him, Amy,” she was told in a careful voice, and she turned to find her brother looking regretful as he stood amongst a small group of his friends.

It would have been easy for her to have turned and followed Cullen. But how could she? How could she leave without her brothe? Leave him here to...to...?

She had come here to bring him home, it was her task, her duty. She wasn’t about to leave him now. She wasn’t about to stand by and let him walk to his death without even a hint of a protest.

“No! I won’t!” She cried, with a shrill voice erupting from her that was louder than any she had conjured before. It almost surprised her. “Now come on, stop being ridiculous and just come with us.”

He didn’t answer her.

“We can go, right now, and get out of here,” her words were almost a scream, and she knew how hysterical it sounded. But she didn’t care anymore. All he cared about was the sinking feeling in her heart as realisation washed over her. “Why won’t you come? Maker’s sake, why didn’t you leave before when you had the chance? Why are we here and why have we ended up in this...this mess?”

There was no answer from him again. In fact, he had begun to turn away from her.

But she wasn’t about to let him.

“You don’t want to, do you?” Her accusations were wild, but they weren’t entirely unfounded. It was a thought she had been harbouring ever since she had arrived, but she hadn’t want to admit that it could be true, that all of his excuses could be because he hadn’t w_anted _to come home. “You never wanted to. You don’t want to come home, and you never did. I’ve seen how happy you are here, with your friends, and your–”

“Don’t talk shit, Amelie,” he snarled. She had never seen him so riled up. Maker, she had been so stupid to have said those things. But desperation could make one do stupid things. “I told you, I can’t come home, even if I wanted to!” 

It was there, he had admitted it. But it didn’t make her feel any better. 

“You said that before. But the Breach is closed, you’re done,” she said, defiant even in the face of his menacing scowl. “Maker’s sake, think of your family, your children…”

“I won’t have any family left if we let him have his way,” he told her, and he loomed over her, she saw the glint of a tear in his eye. Maker, what had this world come to. “This isn’t about me. I’ve seen what happens if he wins, I’ve seen the Breach swallow the world whole and I have seen this world ravaged by hordes of demons and Maker knows what else! If I don’t go out there and deal with this, then there won’t be a world for my children to live in. They’ll be dead, Amelie. Everyone will be dead.”

She was stunned into silence. And, for a minute, so was he.

Then the silence was broken by the quietest of whispers spoken only to her. No one else. Not even those friends of his could hear his words, while they waited so patiently for him to lead them out into the fires, into the abyss.

“I’m sorry that any of this had to happen,” he said to her, so quietly that she almost struggled to hear it herself over the hurrying of the people behind her, the booming of the commander’s voice, and the roaring of the fires outside. “I’m sorry that I got involved in all of this, and that I never told you all, and that you all thought that I had died. And I’m sorry that you came all of this way, and you were so happy to find out that I was alive, only for me to, well…”

“Don’t–”

“I have to,” he said simply, and, try as she might, she could not conjure an argument that would convince him. He was just as stubborn as she was, he always had been. “I’m sorry, Amy. I really am.”

He turned away, facing the large doors that led out of the Chantry, where the fire continued its path of destruction through the village. The others stood beside him, and they walked with him, into the roaring flames in spite of the deafening cry of the dragon above.

But she couldn’t just watch him leave. She couldn’t let him go. Not again.

“No!” She cried, marching towards him in spite of the fear that was rising up from the pit of her stomach. If he was going to walk into those flames, then so would she.

But something stopped her, a hold upon her arm. 

“Get off me!” She cried instinctively, whirling around to wrench her hand free from her assailant. It was Cullen, who stood with his hand hovering in the air and his eyes looking at her with pity in his eyes and in his attempt to smile. 

She didn’t need his pity. She needed her family intact. She needed her brother to come home.

She turned away from him in anger, her eyes falling upon that doorway once again where she expected to see her brother waiting with a change of heart. Perhaps the whole thing would have been one of his jokes. He always had to be the joker, the one to tease them and play tricks on them.

But he wasn’t. Not today.

The doorway was empty. There was no tall, gangly figure with a wicked, playful grin. There was no one there ready to come with her, ready to flee to safety, ready to come home.

All she saw were the flames that rose up against the black abyss of the sky above, and the billow of the smoke that raced towards her and scratched at the back of her throat.

Haven was burning to the ground in front of her eyes, and Lionel had walked into those flames without a thought, in spite of his fear, in spite of the knowledge that he may have thrown away his only chance of escape.

And she had lost her brother once again.

The doors to the Chantry were slammed shut, while outside, the dragon roared.


	10. Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The remnants of the Inquisition are scattered in a camp on the peak of the Frostback Mountains, and Amelie, having left her brother behind when Haven fell, now has to try to move on from the events of that night.

Ash, dirt, sweat, all of the remnants of that final night in Haven had seeped into the roots of her hair. On that afternoon in the Frostback Mountains, behind the tent that had been assigned to her, she tried to wash it all away with cascade after cascade of icy cold water that she poured over her head again and again. She washed, and she washed, and eventually, it all came away.

With it, came the last memory of her brother, as her fingers tore through the twists and turns of her braided hair until that too was nothing but a fading memory.

Just like that, every remnant of that evening, every reminder of Haven, the fires, her brother, were gone.

Good. 

Whenever she remembered, it hurt. Whenever she remembered, tears welled in her eyes.

And what would her mother say if she let those tears fall.

Now, moving forward, she would do as she had done for every second of this past day, for every second of her life. She would take a deep breath, raise her chin, and carry on as if nothing had happened.

As if she hadn't lost her brother again.

Because she didn't know what else to do, because that’s what she had always done.

Keep her head chin up, her shoulders back, her eyes staring into the distance ahead, steeling themselves against the horrors of the world while the rest of her shrunk away behind a mask of iron. 

Hiding. Protecting. Safe.

All she wanted to do was forget. Then she would be safe.

But everyone here was hell bent on making sure that that didn’t happen. They were all so nice to her, _too_ nice, she would say. They all told her to keep her hopes up, to stay positive. They told her that he had faced worse odds, that he had escaped death once before. They told her he would be back soon, that someone would find him.

But she didn't listen to them. She couldn’t.

She stayed hidden behind that iron mask, away from their sympathy, from their words of hope.

She had had hope once. The first camp they had made had been only hours after the flight from Haven, and not too far from the village, either. As night gave way to dawn, the scouts had reported something, figures upon the horizon. 

Hope blossomed from within the camp, who cheered as the figures grew closer and they saw that their companions had returned to them. But she did not. 

Because her brother hadn’t been with them.

She knew their faces, of course. They'd accompanied her brother at Haven, running into the fire at his side when the rest of them had run away.

One of them had spoken to her. Dorian, the one who had made her brother smile, and laugh, and be happier than she had ever seen him before. She couldn't think of anyone she wanted to talk to less.

Back in Haven, they had all teased and laughed at their companionship on that night before the fires had consumed Haven. But Amelie owed it to Jennifer, her sister, her friend, to not give in to his charm.

But he had not made that easy, even she could admit that. And she was just too...nice...to ignore him completely. 

"We all wanted to stay," he had said to her, while the rest of the newly arrived group had all but avoided her gaze. "But he told us to go. He insisted on it, actually."

She stared him down for some time, but he showed no signs of backing down, or walking away without her word.

He was a true nobleman, she could tell. But unlike herself, there had been no mask to hide his emotions, his pain, his grief, on that night.

Perhaps that was why she had relented, if only ever so slightly. She knew how hard it was to strip those layers of armour away and expose yourself to the world in such a manner. After all, she had never had the strength to do so.

"Thank you," she told him with a smile, and to her surprise, it hadn't been too difficult to force.

Jennifer would have to forgive her, for more than just her gratitude towards the man who had caught Lionel's eye.

Because once he had left, and the guilt within her heart began to grow ever stronger, Amelie realised that she would have to break the news to her sister-in-law that, once again, her husband was feared to be dead, that she had failed to bring him home to her.

Maker forgive her for letting him get away. 

If only Cullen hadn’t...

She couldn't dwell on it. A blood red sun had risen the next morning, and the world had moved on from the horrors of the night before. 

And so should she.

She washed the last of the dirt from her hair and face, and took a deep breath. She raised her chin, and she carried on with her day as if nothing had happened, as if her brother hadn't been left to his death.

She had to move on. It was the only thing she knew how to do. Besides, she had letters to write, and it promised to be a very difficult task.

She had to steel herself for the task ahead, because it had to be done. It was her duty.

They had to know.

Her wet hair clung to her coat like an icy cold shroud that wrapped around her shivering body. Every inch of her was cold, and she had been for days now, ever since she had begun the ascent up the mountain on her journey to Haven. Maker, when would she find some relief from this blasted cold.

It didn’t help that the warm, if not slightly drab, coat that her brother had leant to her had torn on the escape from Haven. It had been caught upon a stray branch, and a tear had ripped through her sleeve where the faintest of drafts tickled at her borrowed clothes, and chilled her already shivering skin.

Cullen had unhooked her from the trees grasp, and she had ripped her arm away from him just as she had done on that night in the Chantry.

She couldn’t dwell on it. She couldn’t think about it. She couldn’t let herself remember what had happened.

She had letters to write. 

In the midst of chaos and despair, she would be safe beneath her mask of iron that wed itself to her sense of duty.

She had work to do, there was no time to grieve. 

She needed materials. Parchment wouldn’t be too hard to come by. But a quill, well, it was only Josephine who she could imagine would have carried one on her person when Haven fell. Luckily, they had been assigned to the same tent, along with Leliana.

To her disappointment, Josephine wasn’t in the tent when she arrived. It was only Leliana, who sat on her bedroll with her fingers lacing her boots so quickly that it looked as if they were performing an intricate dance.

“Good morning, Leliana,” she said with a polite smile, while her eyes continued to scan the tent to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken.

But she hadn’t. Josephine was nowhere to be seen.

“Good morning! Everything alright?” She was asked, and not for the first time. Although, mercifully, Leliana wasn’t quite as intent on lacing her words with false sympathy. 

She hadn’t connected with Leliana much before now. She was cold, distant, always hovering on the far horizon and never bothering to come close.

Now she was somewhat grateful for that distance, of that chill within her piercing stare. It was a welcome break from the sympathetic glances and forced smiles that everyone else around her wore.

“Yes,” she told her with her smile becoming more strained. But she steeled herself, sheltered behind her mask, and carried on as she always did. “I was just looking for Josephine. Have you seen her?”

“No, not recently,” Leliana told her as her cold gaze fell towards her hands as they laced up her sturdy, weather worn boots. “Why? What did you need from her?”

“Oh, I just thought she might have a quill, that’s all,” she told her dismissively, but Leliana was not about to let her brush her query aside. She turned to her with a piercing gaze, abandoning the lacing of her boots as she interrogated Amelie with a curious stare. “I just wanted to write some letters home, that’s all.”

“I don’t think that's a good idea. I mean, what if–”

“I don’t want to hear it, Leliana,” she said abruptly. She wouldn’t let her finish what she was about to say. Hope, again. That was all anyone here could say. “Please.”

Leliana paused, looking at her with that same curiosity as before. Then, she returned to the lacing of her boots. “I understand.”

They fell into silence. Amelie waited for her to relent, to tell her where Josephine was. But she didn’t.

She passed her laces through one hole, then the next.

“One thing I will say, however. If you will let me,” she said quickly, continuing on before Amelie even had a hope of interrupting her again. “Cullen will be off shift soon, and I’ll be taking over the search. I have a much sharper eye than either him or Cassandra. So I wouldn’t be too put off by their...lack of results.”

Amelie watched her for a second, reading her, noting the slight twinkle in what was once an icy stare.

Her tone was cold, still, and she remained distant, but there was a smile on her lips that wasn’t forced, or laced with an overbearing twang of sympathy.

Her cold demeanour, her sharp wit, her distant manner, was more of a comfort than anybody’s outpouring of sympathy had ever hoped to be. 

“Well, thank you for your reassurance,” she said with the faintest of smiles. After all, it made a change from the usual lecture on hope.

Hope wasn’t going to help any of them here. Leliana possibly knew that more than others, or so Amelie could have guessed from the way she had distanced herself from the cruel world, hiding behind a mask that was an entirely different origin from her own.

“So maybe hold off on the letter writing until I’ve returned,” Leliana said with some finality, and far more confidence than Amelie could ever have hoped to conjure herself. That in itself was worth more than anyone’s hope.

She smiled at her as she finished lacing her boots and got up to leave, and the dread in Amelie’s heart lightened ever so slightly as she watched her leave with that same confidence reflected in her determined stride.

There wasn’t quite a glimmer of hope, but there was something there that she hadn’t felt before. Relief, perhaps, that there were people here who cared enough to try and help, to try and find him, to try and make her feel better.

Maybe their awkward attempts at sympathy weren’t such a bad thing. At least they were trying.

It was better than nothing.

But she still had to write those letters. One day, at least. She had failed in the task that she had come into this tent to accomplish, just as she had failed to bring her brother home when she had come to Haven. Failure was becoming a close companion to her now.

She walked out of the tent with that failure upon her conscience, but the sun was shining, at least. The afternoon sun was somewhat pleasant even in spite of the cold. But she knew it wouldn’t last long, not up here. Soon, it would set, giving way to a dusk that seemed to last longer than the day itself. In fact, it was already beginning to make its descent, with the camp around her already beginning to take on the signature golden glow of the Frostback Mountains’ evening sun.

The days were short here, the night’s long. The cold, persistent.

Somewhat defeated, she took a seat by the fire and watched the camp change around her. People came and went, not many people talked to her; but they smiled, mostly sympathetically. It soon began to grate on her once again. She could feel the discontent rising from deep within her, burning inside of her as she fought to suppress her irritation, as she fought to keep her face composed, fought to keep that mask strong and steady upon her face.

People had given her that same smile when her husband had died. Some of them still did when she told them of his fate. It was a smile she had never wanted, never needed. She didn’t want it now, either.

Besides Lionel wasn’t…

No, she couldn’t think like that. Hope wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

She longed for someone to pass her by who wouldn’t give her that smile, who wouldn’t tell her to cling onto the vaguest fragments of a hope that was dwindling by the hour. But Leliana was gone, Josephine was...well, she didn’t know where Josephine was. Cullen was in his tent, resting, she imagined, after his long shift with his soldiers as they looked for any signs of her brother.

She froze. She sat up tall, her ears pricking as an idea began to cross her mind that seemed completely ridiculous, completely unfounded, completely unexpected.

Cullen.

Cullen was just the person she needed to see.

He was miserable, Lionel had told her on that first day in Haven. He was scowling and rude, she had once thought, as they spoke awkwardly beneath the glare of the angry, scowling Breach.

But he had saved her. On that night in Haven, he had grabbed her arm and stopped her from giving into her Trevelyan temper and running into the flames behind her brother. 

She had hated him for it at the time. So much so that she had ignored his attempts at conversation as they marched away from the horror, that she had scowled as he unhooked a sharp, pointed branch from the sleeve that was now torn. 

She had hated him for what he had done that night, but he had saved her, stopped her from succumbing to the same fate as her brother.

And now, to her surprise, she found herself wanting to speak with him, and him alone.

Because he would never spare his energy on feigning niceties. He wouldn’t bother trying to force a polite smile, or trying to find sympathetic words to make her feel better. He wouldn’t bother telling her to be hopeful. 

In that moment of desperation, where she wanted more than ever to move on with her life, to pretend that nothing had happened, to forget, she found herself wishing for his straight-forwardness, his sincerity, and his mind that was so focused on the task at hand that anything else seemed frivolous to him.

And he_ had_ been nice to her, somewhat. She found herself turning red as she remembered that it had been _her_ that had been rude to him since their flight from Haven fell. It had been her that had shrugged him off, bitter and angry at him for holding her back as her panic turned to desperation, to anger, to fury.

_“Get off me_!” She had cried, but if it weren’t for him, would she really have walked into those fires in search of him? Would she still be here even now?

His straightforwardness, his logical mind, his sincerity, had saved her from herself.

Perhaps she should talk to him. Perhaps she owed it to him. Perhaps she should show him that she wasn't angry, or upset at him. She was just…

Well, she didn't know what she was right now. Everything was confusing, complicated.

That’s why it was easier to forget.

But he wasn't. He was perhaps the least complicated person here. He was open with his feelings, even to his detriment. She had found that rude at first, but maybe a conversation with him was exactly what she needed.

But all the time that she sat in the centre of the camp, watching the world go by, he never passed her by. Even as she watched the sky turn from icy blue to burning orange, even as the sun had begun to set and there remained little left of a day that had passed too quickly. It always did out here on the edge of the world; the days were short, the nights, insufferably long.

Leliana had taken his place some time ago now, and yet she hadn't seen him. Surely he couldn't have been in his tent this whole time?

But where else would he be? There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape, while they camped out beneath the stars with no roof above their heads save for the flimsy canvas of the tents they had been assigned – a luxury reserved for those who had been assigned tents in the first place.

Daylight faded around her, and the desire to speak to someone, anyone, who would not bring back that feeling of dread, horror, grief, only grew.

_"Never chase, Amelie,"_ her mother had said to her all those years ago when she had been made to court with men from all over the known world in the hopes that one would take to her. But this was different. Cullen was no one, a commander of an army that no one had heard of. 

She wasn’t courting him. It didn't matter what he thought. 

And, anyway, her mother wasn’t here.

Besides, she would be out of here as soon as possible, if she had her way. After that, all of these people here, and everything that had happened here, would become a distant memory.

Including her brother.

No, she mustn't think of it. She should think of something else, find something to distract her. 

Find Cullen. Cullen. He would distract her.

The canvas of his tent was shut, although not very well, with a large gap between the two canvas flaps as they billowed in the cold mountain air. She had no idea what the protocol was for this, for a flimsy tent in the middle of the wilderness – was she supposed to knock? But there was nothing to knock on…

“Commander Cullen?” She called out hesitantly, although she felt rather silly doing so.

“Come in.”

She obliged, parting the canvas and ducking beneath the tents supports as she made her way inside.

These tents weren’t designed for tall people, she had found out to her detriment.

The inside of the tent was a strange juxtaposition between neat and organised, messy and chaotic, while, in the middle of this strange contrast,l stood Cullen, clothed only in a pair of breeches while his hands grasped at a crumbled white shirt.

His chest was exposed completely. Maker, he must have been cold. Except he certainly had enough muscle to keep himself warm, and enough hair upon his chest and stomach to warm him further still.

Every inch of her skin burned.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She said as she quickly moved to avert her eyes, while she hid her burning face behind a raised hand. “I’ll just go, it wasn’t important.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said, while she dared to peek through the fingers of her hand just as he pulled a crumbled short over his exposed chest.

But she couldn't help but notice that there was a small gap where that shirt didn't quite meet his breeches, and her cheeks burned greater still.

“Well, I’ll just–” She began to say, but she soon lost her train of thought.

Her mind was too preoccupied.

_Don't look, Amelie. Don't think about it. Pretend you never saw anything_.

But Maker, how could she? That image was burned into her mind just as the sight of his bare chest had burned at her skin.

“No, don’t worry,” he told her as she watched him turn to her with a smile, his hair slightly rumpled from the effort of changing his clothes, so that a few tufts stood out from their usually uniform, shape. “What did you need?”

Her skin burned once again.

“Nothing, really,” she admitted with a sheepish smile as her eyes fell away from his own. She couldn’t look at him anymore, not now that she had seen him so...exposed. “Forgive me, Commander, I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

“You don’t have to call me that, you know,” he told her, and she had no choice but to raise her eyes to meet his own. That was when she discovered that he looked just as flustered as she felt.

“I’m sorry?” 

“You don’t have to call me Commander,” he said with a smile, and she noted once again how odd it was to see it so crooked, marred by that scar that tore through his lips. “You can just call me Cullen. I’m not one for being addressed by titles.”

“Oh, OK,” she said somewhat sheepishly, while a smile grew on her face in spite of her continued embarrassment. “Well then, Cullen, I guess you can call me Amelie.”

“I can?” It was his turn to be sheepish now, his turn for his cheeks to blossom with red. Although they burned far less than Amelie’s did, more of a pale pink than a flaming red.

“Yes, of course,” she told him with an encouraging smile, and it warmed her heart to see him smile in return. She relaxed, somewhat, her shame making way for a joy that swelled in her heart as they shared in their sheepish smiles. “I mean, I’ve just seen you half-undressed. I feel as if we’ve crossed a bit of a boundary already.”

Her cheeks burned once again. Maker, did she really just say that? 

_Oh Amelie, why do you always say such stupid things?_

“Well, you have a point there, Amelie,” he said, placing far too much emphasis upon her name, as if it were a new piece of clothing he was trying on for size. “Amelie, are you alright? You’ve been–”

Her embarrassment gaze way as his words drove a knife through her heart.

She hadn’t been prepared for that one and, Maker, had it hurt.

“Don’t, Cullen. Please,” she urged him, and he fell silent within an instant. That was exactly the kind of question she had been hoping to avoid when she ventured into his tent. Out of everyone, she had expected him to care about her wellbeing the least. “I came to you because, out of everyone, I thought you’d refrain from all the sympathetic airs and awkward questions, and lectures about hope and prayer. I just don’t need anymore of that, please.”

Her tone had been harsh, and she could see he was taken aback. But, mercifully, a hint of that crooked smile returned to his lips. 

“I can understand that,” he said simply, and she was pleased to see that any sympathy in his eyes had been replaced by his usual steely glare. It was a mask, just like the one she wore that protected herself, that hid her from the world. She wondered what a straightforward man such as himself could possibly be hiding from the world. 

“So, what do you need from me?” He asked her then, and this time, it was her who was taken aback.

What did she...need?

She didn’t even know the answer to that. What she needed had never been a consideration for her.

She had needed to marry a wealthy man. She had needed to have children. She had needed to establish those political connections to further her family’s fortune.

But those were needs placed upon her by her position, her role, her duty. They were another person's needs; her father’s, her mothers.

What did _she_ need? What did she _want_, even? Perhaps his question had been the right one. Perhaps that was all that mattered, here at the edge of the world where none of that other stuff was important, where there were no wealthy suitors or political heavyweights playing games with her very existence.

She shut out everything else, everything that would normally concern her in her life. For once, she thought about what _she_ needed, right now. Not what her family needed, or what her station called for.

Her. Amelie. A woman lost in the middle of the Frostback Mountains with all of her usual comforts and protections stripped from her.

With nothing but the mask of a practised noblewoman to keep her safe.

“A distraction,” she said, finally, and the smile she received told her that he understood.

That was comforting to her.

“OK, well…” his eyes wandered around his tent, scanning the mess to one side, and the neatly arranged piles on the other. “Normally I play chess in my downtime, when I’m bored or I just want something to take my mind off of...things. I’d invite you to a game, but I don’t have a board, or pieces…”

“Chess? Are you asking me if I want to play chess?” She asked him with a hint of a giggle that erupted from her lips before she could even hope to compose herself. “Sorry… I shouldn’t have laughed…”

“No, it’s fine. Josephine laughed at me too when I told her,” he said with a roll of his eyes, looking ever so slightly wounded but managing to compose himself far more successfully than she had done. “Actually, so did your...nevermind.” 

He shook his head violently, and she pretended she hadn’t heard his last comment.

But she had, and she could believe it. It was the kind of thing he would have done. 

_Don’t think about him. Forget._

She moved on, quickly. “Well, maybe when we’re finally out of this freezing cold mountain, we can have a game,” she suggested to him, spurred on by the guilt that had crept into her heart, whilst desperately reaching for any hint of that distraction she had craved.

He understood, perhaps. Or he appeared to have done, at least.

“Maybe we could,” he said with a smile that she forced herself to mirror, while the pair of them fell into silence in the midst of his cold tent. It was dark in here now, night must have fallen outside. But mercifully, there was a candle lit, a flicker of light that illuminated Cullen’s warm, almost golden, eyes. 

But as she saw the flicker of the flame reflecting in those eyes, she found herself spiralling once again.

Maker, if he was still out there, somewhere, how would he survive this cold?

She found herself shivering as a breath escaped from her lips, leaving a heavy cloud of smoke in its wake.

“You know, you wouldn’t be so cold if you weren’t wearing a coat with a big tear in the sleeve,” he told her then, cutting through the silence with his slightly awkward, stilted tones, and cutting through her rapidly spiralling thoughts.

He was trying, she knew, and she was grateful for it.

She turned towards the sleeve of her coat, and she remembered how he had helped her unhook that branch from her coat, how cruel she had been when she had scowled at him and flounced away from his attempts to help.

_“Are you OK? Are you hurt?”_ He had asked her, and she had ignored him, angry still from that moment in the Chantry.

But she wasn’t angry at him anymore. He had helped her far more than she could have ever hoped to have imagined when she had first met him at Haven, and the two had hardly spoken a kind word to one another.

She felt her cheeks burning once again as she skulked away in shame. Maker, all of this blushing was going to make her cheeks hurt. “Oh, yeah. But there’s not a lot I can do about that out here.”

“Well I could patch it up for you,” he told her with his tone so laden with enthusiasm that she could tell he was trying so hard to lift her spirits, to distract her. It was working. “But you’d have to find another one to wear in the meantime.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure I’ll be able to find plenty out here in the middle of nowhere,” she said as she turned to him with a roll of her eyes.

Cullen shrugged, ignoring her sarcastic tone. “Or you could just borrow mine.”

He didn’t let her answer. He just laughed gently as he strode over to one of the neat piles that rested near his bed. 

If the neat piles were his own, perhaps the mess belonged to whoever was sharing the other bedroll. 

That was good. She didn’t like mess.

“I was wearing this one just now. I don’t know whose it was originally but, well, it’s yours now, I guess,” he shrugged, as he fished out a brown leather coat and handed it over to her with a satisfied grin upon his face. 

He looked so pleased with himself, so happy to have been helpful to her, that she couldn’t help but take the coat from his arms and give him her old one in its place.

But she found herself hesitating for a moment, just as his hands had rested upon the bundle of white leather.

Her brother had given her that coat on her first day in Haven. She had hated the clothes he had given her. They were too tight, they emphasised her curves rather than hid them, and they smelt a little bit like a stable.

But if Cullen were to take it from her, then that final memory of him would be gone.

She mustn’t think about it. She mustn’t think about him.

_Forget_.

“Thank you, Comm–” she said quietly as she tried so hard to keep her voice from breaking, sheltering the emotion with the iron mask that she retreated even further behind. But then, she remembered what he had said.

_“You don’t have to call me that, you know,”_

Maker, she was stupid.

A mixture of embarrassment and amusement forced a chuckle to escape from her lips. “Sorry, Cullen. I forgot...”

He didn’t reprimand her, or scowl at her, or take on a look of offense. 

He simply laughed.

The smile that grew upon her lips was one she thought she had lost when Haven fell. It was strong, but effortless, with no thought at all going into its creation. It was good to feel that hint of happiness once again. It was good to talk about silly things and laugh at one another’s expense. It was as if everything was normal again. It was as if nothing was wrong, as if nothing had happened.

Which was exactly what she had been looking for, a chance to feel normal again, a chance to forget exactly what she had been trying to run from, what she was hiding from.

A distraction.

But it didn’t last. Nothing ever did.

“Commander Cullen!” She let go of the coat, her earlier hesitation being entirely forgotten as a voice called out from beyond the canvas to interrupt their conversation, to distract her from the heavy weight of those memories entangled in the fabric of that coat.

And with that, the coat was taken from her, as Cullen took it from her hand and placed it on one of his neat piles.

Gone. Just like that. 

She had no idea that it could be so easy. She had no idea how much the kindness of a relative stranger could help. 

“What is it?” Cullen barked, in sharp contrast to the laugh that had sung from his lips not moments before.

“Leliana needs your help,” his words were raspy, and desperate, and she all but choked them out as he held a hand to his chest.

“What with?”

The man looked at Amelie with discomfort upon his reddened face. “The Herald, he’s…”

His words fell into silence, hanging in air between them while, instead of finishing his words, he breathed heavily with the wind chill catching at the back of his throat.

Just like that man, Amelie found herself choking on her own breath. Just like him, she wanted to speak, she wanted to ask him what he wanted to say, what he had meant. But she couldn’t.

Those memories, those feelings, that grief, all flooded back to her, as she was left to stand in the tent with the cold air biting at her skin while Cullen raced out after him. She shivered, it was cold. Then she realised she had never put on the coat that Cullen had given to her.

She put it on, bringing it closer to her chest as if it could protect her from what was to come.

But nothing would. She wasn’t even certain that she would be able to keep her composure after all of this. 

She could feel her mask beginning to slip away. She could feel the cracks beginning to form.

But now was not the time to break.

She left the tent, walking out into the night, into the cold, into the darkness. The world around them had changed. Where the camp had once been eerily silent, people talked, and muttered, and there was a spark amongst the crowd that basked in the roaring flames of the campfire that raged and burnt in the middle of the throng of curious people with curious eyes.

A man stood on the other side of the fire. Dorian. He watched, waited, eyes cast into the darkness beyond just as hers were.

And together, but not really, they watched, and waited, and dared to hope against all hope, against all logic, against all reason.

But all she could see before them was darkness.


	11. Shattered Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald has been found, and Amelie waits with the rest of the Inquisition for his return.

_“Why are you sad, Amy?_” Lionel had asked her on that afternoon in their grandfather’s beautiful, sprawling gardens, while the birds sang cheerfully overhead.

“_Because I couldn’t find you, I was worried…_” She had sniffed, and she remembered even the way she had bitten her lip and wiped her face with her sleeve.

“_That’s the point, Amy,_” he had sighed, but he had become used to it by then. She had been a very nervous child. “_It’s called ‘hide and seek’. I’m meant to hide, and you’re meant to find me._”

“_But…what if you were lost..._” She had no idea how he had heard her as she had mumbled into her damp sleeve but, somehow, he had done.

He had always been patient, although where he had inherited that from she had no idea. “_Alright, if it’s going to upset you, then we’ll play something else._”

He had marched her away then, grabbing her by the hand as they waltzed off to another corner of the seemingly never ending gardens, while the birds continued to sing their merry song.

Now, the birdsong was replaced by one of Leliana’s ravens that shrieked into the night as Amelie stood amongst a bustling crowd, while she hoped, and prayed, that her brother wasn’t lost, that he would come back to her. 

She waited, while clouds of breath escaped Amelie’s lips, and joined the dense fog that hung above the heads of all those who had gathered around the failing campfire. Someone should stoke it, put another log on, perhaps.

But no one did. No one moved. All they did was watch, and wait.

A fragment of hope had gathered within the darkness ahead of her, and that was why Amelie stood in the cold, and the dark, amongst people she barely knew.

Hope, a feeling that she hadn’t dared to conjure for some time. Hope, a feeling which she had deemed too dangerous to even allow to fester. Hope, something which, before now, had been no more than a distant dream, something for others to enjoy, but never her.

Now, it almost seemed tangible. She could allow herself to hope, because what else was there?

Perhaps this was it. Perhaps her brother had been found. Perhaps she could even dare to hope that he had been found alive, out here in the middle of a frozen wasteland, after fire and fury had almost consumed them all.

In spite of it all, in spite of everything that she had told herself up until now and verything she had been taught about keeping herself in check, keeping her composure, she couldn’t help it: she dared to hope. 

There was a fragment of hope within her heart that she could no longer ignore, and she simply could not conjure up the willpower to push it away. She stared out into the darkness of the night, and she watched, and waited, hoping with all hope that something would come of this, that soon, her brother would be with her once again.

Or he wouldn’t be. Or he would be dead. Just as she had feared.

It was cold and it was dark. She wrapped the coat tighter around her body, shielding herself from the chill wind. Maker, if it was cold here, in the middle of the camp as it clung desperately to the fringes of the campfire, it must be even colder wherever he was. Or wasn’t…

No. She couldn’t think about that. Not now.

Once, she had forced herself to imagine the worst, where once she had spurned all notion of hoping for his return. But now the only thing keeping her standing in this cold, and this dark, was the possibility that he may come back alive.

Hope. It was a strange feeling, something which was very unfamiliar to her. It swelled up from within her chest and crept through her veins with every beat of her heart, spurred on by the excited murmurings of the crowd that had gathered around the fire.

It kept her warm. It kept her awake. It kept her watching, and waiting.

But if it happened to be all in vain, she couldn’t imagine how much it was going to hurt.

She should have stayed strong, she should have kept her resolve, she should have continued to hide behind that mask of iron and steeled herself for the worst.

But she couldn’t. That small fragment of hope that had sparked deep inside of her when the soldier had told them he had been found had coursed throughout her body like a wildfire racing through a once peaceful countryside. So when Josephine came to stood next to her with a smile upon her face, Amelie couldn’t help but smile back.

It would be OK. They’d found him. He must be alive, he must.

Maker, her Mother would have rolled her eyes if she had seen the way that Amelie’s resolve had faltered. She would have lectured, and chastised, and moaned about Amelie’s fickle heart. And she would be a hypocrite, because Amelie had seen only recently how she had spiralled into a frenzy of denial and grief.

It conflicted with everything that she had been taught, but lectures meant nothing in the real world, and that hope, that optimism, that anticipation, was all that kept her going on that dark, cold, night in the Frostback Mountains.

There would be a point when it would pay off, or it would not. When it would be fulfilled, or when it would be in vain. When she would be overjoyed, or when she would be devastated.

It turned out to be the former, Maker be praised,

There was a time when the fire had stopped roaring, and instead crackled away at the last remaining pieces of wood that were scattered around its base. There was a time when some had gotten too cold, or too bored, and had retreated to the safety and comfort of their tents, when excitement turned to disappointment, and the crowds turned to a small scattering of only the most loyal.

But she stayed. She held out.

And Maker, was she glad she did.

Maker, was she glad she had succumbed to that tiny fragment of hope within her heart.

At first, there were sounds that could have been voices, far off in the distance. Then there were whispers around her, the shuffling of feet as people craned to see further into the darkness ahead of them.

She whispered too. A prayer; the first one she had said in a long time.

It worked, perhaps. Or something had. Perhaps it had been that fragment of hope, perhaps she had been wrong to suppress it before.

Because hope transformed into reality. Whispers turned to cries, and cheers, and the sounds from deep within the darkness turned into the image of a group of people walking close to one another, slowly, into the light. 

Leliana reached them first, then the others. Cullen and Cassandra half-dragged a a man who towered over them.

It was her brother. It had to be.

In the fading light from the fire, she could see that he was bruised, battered, as pale as the snow beneath his feet. But it was her brother, and in spite of all her doubts and fears, he was very much alive. She almost could have cried, if she was the kind of woman who did so, but she held her composure, for the most part. A smile onto her lips as she watched Cullen help him to a stool near the fire, the one nearest to her, so she could see for herself that he was no figment of her imagination.

He really was here. He really was alive.

Maker, forgive her for doubting, for her lack of faith, her abandonment of hope.

Cullen gave her a quick look before he ran off, the same one she had seen him give to his soldiers. It was an instruction, an order: look out for him.

Or at least that was how she had interpreted it, and there were certainly no complaints from her.

He didn’t need to ask her to look after her own brother, not when she had been so sure that he would never come back.

Now he was here, alive, with her once again.

She never wanted to have to leave him again, never wanted to have to say goodbye, never wanted to have to let him go.

He was here, beside her, even after everything. His face had lost all of its colour, it was icy cold, and void of all life, but it burned with the light of the fire that caught in his hazel-green eyes. Here he was, shielding himself from the cold as he huddled beneath a damp, torn coat, while he clutched at the arm that the strange, green magic had attached itself to. The same one he had injured before. She hadn’t seen it then, thank the Maker, but she imagined that it had looked just as useless, just as limp, just as lifeless, as it did now.

He didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge her, or any of them. He stared into the fire, into the flames, as they licked at the last remnants of firewood that lay atop a heap of ash while voices erupted within the camp around them. Cullen was barking orders at people, rallying around healers and physicians and anyone else who could help. Others talked amongst themselves.

Only Amelie dared talk to him. Only Amelie dared ask.

“Lionel? What happened? Are you OK? Are you hurt? She asked him nervously as she came off of her stool and chose instead to kneel in the snow next to him. Her legs were damp, now, but she didn’t care about that. 

Nothing mattered anymore.

He turned to her slowly. Vacant, lost, he seemed almost unreachable. Had he even heard her?

She wanted to touch him, to reach out. She almost did. But she stopped herself. He looked so fragile, so weak. She didn’t want to hurt him.

But she didn’t need to. He suddenly came to life, his face illuminating once more, his lips forming a smile that was far too familiar to her, and usually meant trouble. “Well, to be honest, I think I’ve had better days.”

“Are you kidding me?” She cried with frustration, anger. She wanted to curse, roll her eyes, shove him as she had done when they were children and he had wound her up to no end. But despite the sudden burst of life that had sparked within those earthy hazel eyes, there was fragility about him that made her hesitate. She relented, exhaling her frustrations with one, long breath. “You never take anything seriously, do you?”

“Oh, come on,” he laughed at her then, and more life returned to that sullen face. “If there’s ever day where I’m not trying to wind you up, you’ll know there’s a serious problem.”

She was cold, and tired, and shaken by everything that had happened. But, somehow, she still found it within her to let out the smallest of laughs. 

He was here, he was alive, and, soon, he would be just the same as he always was, her annoying older brother who always managed to get on her last nerve.

She never wanted it to be any different. She had almost lost him twice in the space of a few months, now she never wanted to go through that again.

She could have cried then. She almost did. Tears gathered in her eyes, and they could have fallen if she had wanted them too. But not now, now here, in front of the whole of the Inquisition. Her mask remained intact, as it should have done.

“Hey, Boss! Good to have you back with us!” A figure towered over Amelie, and she turned to see a large Qunari man standing behind the pair of them, with the light from the fire shining from the one eye that wasn’t hidden behind a patch. “That arm looks nasty though.”

“It’s fucking disgusting is what it is,” Sera cried from behind him, where she peered out with grimace on her small round face.

The Qunari only laughed. “I can shove it back in for you if you like.”

To her surprise, Lionel shrugged with the one arm that still worked. “Yeah if you want.”

"Nice!” He grinned, like a small child being given an armful of sweets. “Krem! Come over here and hold the bastard down.”

Amelie was horrified. "No way! You're not going to let him do that to you, are you?"

"What? That's only what they did last time," he explained to her with another half shrug.

“Oh don’t be so barbaric!” Vivienne appeared almost out of nowhere, and Amelie could not even begin to describe how comforting it was to see her kindly face as she pushed her way through the crowd. "Come on, dear, let me help. Solas, come with me in case that thing in his hand plays up."

"I can help," Dorian offered from behind her, having appeared seemingly from no where. He never seemed to be far away, she had concluded.

"Dorian, I need a healer, not a pyromaniac," she told him cooly, and he stood rebuked, powerless, unwanted.

Just as she was. And just as she did, he stood by that fire in the middle of the camp, watching uselessly while everyone rushed past them. 

Although, unlike her, he received one final passing remark from Lionel before he left.

"Don't worry, I'm sure you have plenty of other talents," a joke, a sly remark, spoken with a wink that revealed the mischief within.

Joking once again at such a critical moment. Last time, she had been annoyed, angry, that he had refused to take himself seriously. Now, she was relieved. Because it meant that he was OK, and he would be OK. That was all that mattered.

"You must be tired. Why don't you get some sleep?" Josephine's sweet voice called out to her, interrupting the darkened thoughts that had crept into Amelie's mind. "Someone will come and get you if anything happens, don't worry."

She turned to her slowly, but even with such a slow movement, her head spun, and she almost spun with it. Tired. Josephine was right. But with everything that had happened these past few hours, she hadn't even realised how exhausted she was.

She nodded at her, too tired to even speak. Then, slowly, she turned away from her, away from the fire, from the camp itself where, somewhere, her brother was safe, being looked after by all of those who cared for him.

She cared for him too, but she wasn't one of them. Even after everything, she still didn't feel like she was a part of his life here.

He lived in another world now, and all she wanted to do was go back to her own.

But, surely, he would come back with her now, wouldn't he? He wouldn't stay after all of this? After he had almost died again?

But she had given him that choice. She had offered him the chance to abandon Haven and flee with her to safety, to her, to home. And he hadn’t taken it. 

Why? Why would he want to stay? Why would he chosen to walk into the burning fires and risk his own life than come with her to safety, to freedom?

She had to ask him. She had to know.

Soon. When he woke. When this whole saga was beginning to fade into memory.

A cry cut through her troubled thoughts and brought her back to reality with a sudden, sharp, jolt.

"Lady Har...err...sorry...Amelie," a deep voice hailed from behind her, and she turned to find Cullen standing behind her, with the light from the campfire framing him from far behind.

Maker, how far had she walked?

"I was just...I was just checking the perimeter and I saw you all the way out here…" he said while he threw his hands into the pocket of his coat to fend off the cold. She suddenly felt very aware of the thick leather coat he had lent her. "Is everything OK?"

"Yes, of course," she said quickly with the faintest hint of a laugh, a gentle chuckle that stood in stark contrast to the eerie silence of the night. Why would he ask such a thing? Of course she was…

She hid herself behind the sleeve of the coat she borrowed from him, just as she had done on that day in the gardens when she was a child. And just as it had done on that day, her sleeve came away damp.

Were those...tears?

She was horrified, embarrassed, shaken to her core that she had exposed herself in such a manner as she stammered out a feeble apology. "I'm so sorry, I just…"

But words failed her. 

Why was she sorry? Why was she crying? How had she ended up walking all the way out here when she was meant to be in her tent, sleeping away the remainder of the night.

She should have walked away. She should have turned her back and hid herself once more.

But she hadn’t been quick enough.

"You don't have to be sorry, Amelie,” he told her with a smile that was comforting, and warm, and despite her mind telling her to flee, she found herself rooted to the spot in front of this man she hardly knew, who offered her words that no one had ever offered her before. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s OK if you’re upset.”

They were simple words, really. They meant very little, more of a note of politeness than anything else. She didn't think he was looking to give her comfort, or advice, or encourage her to give in to the emotions that were creeping into every inch of her body.

But she did. Maker, she did.

A tear fell, and then another, and another. They fell slowly at first, slow trickles of warm, salty water that cascaded down her cold, pink cheeks, dancing across her skin as they weaved a path through her scattering of freckles.

Then, the dam burst, the floodgates opened, and the mask which had been made of iron, was suddenly made of glass, and it had shattered into a thousand pieces that fell to the floor as tears. 

And she almost fell with them, her legs almost gave way as a tremor erupted through her entire body. But Cullen caught her, a pair of strong arms wrapping themselves around her and bringing her close. In his hold, an unfamiliar smell enveloped her, the same one that lingered to the fabric of the coat she had borrowed not hours before.

That must be how he smelt, of leather, and sweat, and a hint of a musky soap that reminded her of childhoods spent playing in the garden: the smell of the earth, of a garden, or a woodland dampened by a hint of rain just as the sun had begun to rise into the sky.

With his smell, and his warmth, and the soothing words he spoke into her ear, the tears slowed from a waterfall, to a stream, to a trickle that meandered down her icy cold cheeks to join the flood that had amassed upon Cullen’s coat.

Her breath almost returned to normal, her hands almost stopped shaking.

Slowly, the storm that had been brewing in her mind began to ease, and everything that she had been feeling over these past few weeks: the grief, the confusion, the joy, the fear, the pain, the relief, all of it had washed away with those tears that had streamed from her eyes to soak the fabric of Cullen’s coat and fall in odd specks that littered the snow beneath her feet.

And there, they could stay, and trouble her no more.

Her mother would be beside herself if she saw her like this, vulnerable, exposed, seeking comfort in the arms of a man she barely knew.

But her mother could be damned, they all could, her family, society, all of those people who had told her to hide herself away, steel herself, feel nothing even in the face of utter despair. Because as she stood in the arms of this strange man, she realised that, since that day when she had held that fateful letter in her hand, she had never felt so peaceful, so at ease, so comforted.

The world had been cruel, utterly, and bitterly cruel. It had played with her emotions and warped into a woman who had felt the need to hide behind an mask of iron. Without that mask, she should have felt weak, that’s what they had all told her as they taught her how to construct an armour around her very soul. But she didn’t. She felt strong, stronger than she had felt in a long time. Stronger, perhaps, than she had ever been.

The tears dried up eventually, and once they had, she knew that she would cry no more tonight. Because here, with all of her pain and anguish and despair now released from the depths of her mind, her heart, her soul, she could be strong, brave, fierce, emboldened by the strength within Cullen’s arms as he held her to his chest.

That same chest she had seen exposed the day before...

The raven called into the night, from the camp she had abandoned in favour of the unending dark.

The camp. The inquisition. Her brother.

Suddenly, she became so much aware of the world around her. Suddenly, she remembered what she had run from. Suddenly, she realised what she was doing, what had happened.

She wrenched herself from Cullen's arms, recoiling from the touch she had been so comfortable with not long before.

She looked up into his eyes, his warm, golden brown eyes, and she saw the look of concern etched into his cold, steely gaze. 

Maker, what had she done?

She ran. Her face burned as hot as the fire in the camp as she fled the scene of the crime. But so too did the depths of her heart.

She ran. Back to the camp she had abandoned, back to reality, to the world in its unending state of horror and dread. 

There was hardly anyone here now. It was empty, with everyone retreating to their tents save for the soldiers who remained on duty.

She stopped for a moment, looked back, her eyes finding the spot where she knew that golden brown ones would be staring back at her. 

Then she ran again.

Her cheeks flushed, her fingers trembled, her stomach did a thousand turns until it made her feel nauseous. 

A thousand questions raced throughout her mind as she concentrated on keeping that day’s food within her stomach.

Why had he held her in such a way? Why had she felt so content, so relaxed, so safe, within his arms?

Why had her cheeks flushed red, and her heart began to race, when she remembered the musky, earthy scent of the clothes she had pressed herself against?

The raven cried again as she raced into her tent and dived into her bedroll, where the horrors of the world couldn't possibly find her.

She hoped.


	12. The Dawn That Came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new dawn has risen in the Frostback Mountains after a long, dark, night, and the Herald has returned safe and well. But Amelie begins to have other concerns beyond her brother's safety as she dwells upon the events of the night before.

Amelie woke to a world that was just as cold as ever, but the sunlight that crept through the gaps in the canvas gave her a hint of what it had once felt to be warm.

It was pleasant, calming, gentle. As she floated endlessly in a limbo between the waking world and the Fade, she truly felt at peace, in a state of tranquility that she had so rarely found herself in.

But then, she remembered.

Oh Maker...she remembered...

She shot up out of her bedroll, and was immediately hit by a blast of icy cold air. Shivering, her eyes searched the tent frantically. It was empty. Good. Josephine and Leliana must have left her to sleep.

She was very glad about that. She couldn't face talking to them right now, or anyone.

Oh Maker…

She hid herself beneath the covers of her bedroll, blocking out the cold, the sunlight, the shame. 

Cullen. Her tears. His…

Stop. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about him.

But she couldn't. However hard she tried, she couldn’t stop her mind from recalling every single excruciating detail not just of what had happened that night before, but how she had felt, how his warmth had crept into her skin and calmed the depths of her heart, comforting her in a way that she hadn’t for a long, long time. She remembered how she had inhaled his smell as she was brought close to him, how it eased her conflicted feelings and brought her stream of tears to an end.

She remembered how, in spite of how inappropriate it had been, she had enjoyed the sensation of his arms around her, of her head against his chest, of his face hidden in her mass of tangled red hair.

She mustn't remember. She mustn’t. She had to forget, had to move on.

Shutting her eyes, she prayed for sleep, prayed for a release from the memories that threatened to overwhelm her. But it wouldn't come. The world was far too light, the air too cold, and she must have slept for far too long already. 

There would be no salvation for her on this morning, no escape from the tide of feelings that had taken over every inch of her body.

Maker, what was she going to do now? She was going to have to get out of bed at some point, she was going to have to face him.

Maker, what was she going to do?

It would be OK, she told herself. It would be OK. Her brother was back, they'd move on soon. Hopefully to somewhere with some kind of civilisation. Then, she could go home, and never see Cullen again.

Never…

She felt a pang of...something...tear at her heartstrings. Did that thought make her sad? That she would never see him again, or smell him, or feel his arms wrapped around her…

No. She had to stop.

She shook her head and hid herself even further beneath the covers. No, she mustn't think about it, she mustn't give in to her feelings. 

She'd just have to stay here all day, pretend she was sleeping. That would stop her from having to face what she had done.

"Oi! Oi!" A shriek erupted from outside of her cocoon, but she ignored it. "Oi! Lady Princess Poncy-Face! Oi!"

Oh Maker, it was Sera. Who else would call her such a silly name?

She didn't dare move. Perhaps if she didn't move, she would think she wasn't here.

But she had been wrong to think that she was safe here, as she found out when something smacked against her back with a sharp thud. 

"Ow!" Amelie shot out of her bedroll, turning to watch Sera preparing her right foot for another sharp kick. "What are you doing?"

"Waking you up," she shrugged, folding her arms across her chest as she stared down at Amelie with a frown. "Thought you might want to."

"Why?" She scowled at her with fury in her eyes. 

No one woke Amelie up, not without good reason anyway.

"Because lordship's awake," she shrugged again, while Amelie's scowl fell away sharply. "Yeah, didn't you know? Just saw him outside."

She tore her bedroll away from her and launched herself onto her feet.

That was a good enough reason for her. In fact, it was more than good.

Amelie rushed past her with such speed that Sera was almost knocked off of her feet.

"Pffft! You're welcome!" Sera cried out from behind her. "Bloody posh girls, you're all the same no matter how fit you are."

Amelie stopped in the doorway to the tent, turning back to Sera with a smile that was more genuine than any she had conjured in a long while. 

"Thank you, Sera. It was very kind of you to come and find me."

She escaped from the tent very soon after that, but she was there for long enough to witness a hint of pink begin to blossom on Sera’s cheeks, just as Amelie had done the evening before when–

No. Stop. She had to stop remembering, she had to stop thinking about it, about him.

She had more important things to think about right now. She had to find her brother.

She burst out of the tent, and was welcomed by the blinding rays of the midday sun. On this day, more than ever, that sun really was beautiful; a light that shone so brilliantly after the darkest of days. The long night was over; a new dawn has risen, the world born anew. 

Eventually, her eyes adjusted to its brilliance, and the camp lay before her, a now familiar sight to the woman who had been dropped into this unusual world and left to fend for herself.

These past few days, out here at the edge of the world, had been some of the most frightening of her life. But that was all over now. Her brother had returned. He was here, somewhere…

But so was Cullen. She saw him before she saw anyone else sitting by the fire in the middle of the camp talking to whoever sat next to him.

Oh Maker, why him?

She needed to steel herself, to construct a new mask and face her troubles head on. But she wasn't sure if she'd have the strength to do so after everything that had happened.

But she had to. She _had _to. Because, quite simply, she didn't know how else to get through this.

She _had_ to. Because she didn't know what else to do.

But in the mean time, she had to escape. She turned away quickly, spotting Josephine as she hovered on the fringes of the camp with Leliana by her side. She would go to them, Josephine was always keen to talk, and always so sweet to talk to–

"Amy!"

She froze to the spot at the sound of a nickname only a small number of people had ever used.

The one her mother had hated so passionately.

Suddenly, she forgot about Cullen. Suddenly, it didn't matter what had happened.

She turned to find her brother again, and she saw him smile at her from beneath the light of that blinding morning sun, and suddenly, nothing else mattered. Everything else had been forgotten.

She returned his smile, but she didn't stop there. Her inhibitions had long since been lost, her steely exterior shattered to pieces that night before. She hurried towards him, one foot racing to get in front of the other as she closed the gap between them, and did something she hadn't done in about 20 years.

Before he had gone to school, in those days when they had been all but inseparable, they always hugged, and held hands, and comforted each other when life had been hard to them.

But that was a long time ago. They were adults now. They didn’t do such frivolous things.

Except on that morning. She couldn’t help herself. Just as she had done when they were children, she threw her arms around his skinny frame and sunk herself into his shoulder.

"Ow!" A sharp cry made her release him almost as quickly as she had thrown herself at him.

She backed away, sinking to her knees in the snow next to him as her face burned beneath his gaze.

She saw then the bandage that held his arm in place, the small dressings that scattered the pale skin of his face and marred the scalp beneath his red hair. 

"Sorry," she mumbled, as her embarrassment returned to flush the skin of her cheeks a delicate shade of pink. "I was just so happy to...that you were OK.”

"Why? You weren't worried about me, were you?" He asked her with a snicker.

"Of course I–" she began but she stopped as soon as that first hint of a laugh fell from his lips. "Oh stop teasing!"

His laugh evolved into a cackle that sent a shiver of joy up her spine until she couldn't help but break into a smile that was so wide she could feel it straining the muscles of her cheeks. They hadn't had much use these past few years, they had a long sleep to wake themselves up from.

In spite of it all, in spite of all of the dark thoughts that had clouded her mind, telling her that he was gone, that he was never coming back, here he was. And he was a little beaten up, a little more rough around the edges than he had been when he had first left home. But he was here, he was smiling, laughing, teasing her just as he always had done.

It was a beautiful morning, a bright, shining dawn that rose after a long, dark night.

She couldn’t remember when she had ever felt so happy.

A cough, or more of a splutter, erupted from behind her to interrupt her moment of peace. 

"I'll just um–" 

Her smile fell. She knew that voice, perhaps a little too well after last night.

Cullen.

"I'll just go…" He continued as both of their gazes turned towards him.

"I didn’t even realise he was still here," Lionel whispered in her ear, but she dared not turn to acknowledge him. She couldn’t let him see her reddening face, or the way her eyes hid themselves from both of their views. "Wait! Amy, who gave you that coat?" 

The skin on her cheeks erupted into a blazing inferno. "No one! I just...I borrowed it.”

"Oh…" he said then, and she watched him from the corner of her eyes as his gaze flittered between the two of them. "Cullen, didn't you have one just–"

"I’ll just...I...I should go! I have...um...reports…” Cullen exploded into a series of stutters and stammers next to her as he began to back away from the pair of them.

"Wait!" 

Cullen’s retreat had been stopped before it had even began. Amelie turned towards her brother, and so did Cullen, as if they were a pair of naughty children waiting for a lecture from their parents.

"I meant what I said, Cullen," her brother said finally, after what felt like an age beneath his interrogative gaze. "Thank you for helping me."

She breathed a sigh of relief, and she imagined that Cullen did too. But he had a surprising amount of grace, and he didn't give it away. 

Or he hadn’t done, until the day before, when he had more than graceful even as she had lost all semblance of it.

"You're welcome, Herald," he ducked away, his bulking figure hurrying across the camp with his long, lumbering stride, heading towards that tent that she had escaped to, when he had been so exposed…

"Maker, he’s a nice guy, but he is a bit...weird…" Lionel sighed with a shake of his head. "Don't you think?"

"Yeah, definitely," she scoffed, shaking her head violently in an attempt to mimic him. "Anyway, it's good to see you up and about so soon."

"Oh Maker’s sake, I didn’t die, Amy," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"Well you weren't far off!" Amelie could have sworn and cursed and lashed out at his indifference. But she didn’t, because it was just so..._him_. 

"And yet, here I am!" He said with a grin, but as she made herself at home on a makeshift stool next to him, she wasn't smiling.

"You almost died, again," she said with her expression sobering quickly. "Shouldn't you be resting, at least?"

His smile fell, as he turned away from her, his eyes instead falling upon the embers from last night's fire, as if the flames still roared against the night sky. 

"Probably," he shrugged as he returned his attention to her and continued on as if nothing had happened. But it was too late. She had seen it, and she had a suspicion that he wasn’t, perhaps, as alright as he seemed. "Anyway, you can blame everyone for waking me up with their bickering! And then, of course, Mother Giselle felt the _need_ to have everyone break out into song…”

She found herself stifling a laugh. "Oh dear, I must have missed that!"

"Well you didn't miss much. It was just like being at school again,” he told her with a roll of his eyes. “Except – weirdly – Cullen is a surprisingly good singer! Which was completely baffling and quite frankly, it makes me wonderwhat_ else_ that man could be hiding up his sleeve.”

She wondered about that too. She wondered what else he was talented at, what else he could turn his hand to when needed. She wondered how he had sounded, how he had managed to catch her brothers attentions enough to warrant him saying such a thing.

But she had to stop wondering, because she could feel the heat returning to her skin that had only just begun to cool.

"Anyway, enough about him!" Lionel said so suddenly that it made her jump out of her skin. “Aren’t you glad to have me back?”

He might have been joking, from the way his smile slipped into a grin and his free arm nudged at her playfully. 

But she wasn’t.

"Yeah, thank the Maker," she sighed as she slipped into a smile. "Now we just need to get off of this freezing cold mountain and go home."

His smile fell, and hers soon followed. There was a vacant look in his eyes once again, but this time, it revealed something very different. Shame. Despair. Hurt, perhaps.

Then she remembered what had happened before.

Guilt began to overwhelm her. "Look, I'm sorry for what I said before…”

"You don't have–"

"Yes I do," she told him firmly, cutting him off soon after he had dared to speak. "I shouldn't have been so...I don’t know...judgemental, I guess. And nosy! And..." 

She turned to him. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt; neither of them were very good at this. But the guilt was still churning deep within her. 

She hadn't bothered to label her emotions before now, all she wanted to do was pretend they didn't exist. But now that everything had come out, she knew what had been at the root of her pain.

If he had died, her last moments with him would be in the midst of a silly argument. 

She wanted to tell him how she felt, tell him how hurt she would have been parting on those spiteful words. She didn't just know how.

"I really am sorry," was all she could say. But it was enough.

"Apology accepted, dear sister," he said with a teasing smile that almost made her lash out with a nudge of his good arm. But she restrained herself.

After all, he had been right. If he wasn't joking around then, well, there really would be something wrong.

"Let me confess something, though," he said then, as the smile on his face quickly vanished. "You weren't wrong, I didn't really want to come home. Actually, I still don't," he sighed, his eyes falling from her own as he turned once again to stare at the ghost of last nights fire. 

"I thought as much," she admitted with little more than a mumble. "May I ask why?"

He turned to her with a frown of confusion.

"Well it worries me, Lionel," she admitted with some discomfort. "You have a family to get back to, an estate to run, a life that isn't...whatever this is. The Breach is closed, your job is done, so I don’t really understand why you’re being so...weird!"

"Well, I still have stuff to do," he said halfheartedly as he squirmed beneath her gaze. "The thing that attacked us…"

"Oh please don't lie to me," she pleaded with a roll of her eyes. "You have a job to do, I get it. But that is not why you refuse to come home, is it? Because I know how stubborn you are. If you really wanted to, you'd find a way!"

He didn't answer. The camp around them buzzed as people passed them by with curious glances and whispers behind raised hands.

No one approached. No one came to interrupt her. No one was here to save him.

"Why don't you just tell me what's really going on?" She asked him with some degree of impatience, but the concern in her heart made itself known in the tone of her voice. "Has something happened at home? Is it Jennifer? Did she do something? Did _you_ do something?"

"What?" She had his attention now. "Happened? No! Nothing's happened," He scoffed, shaking his head as he quickly dismissed her concerns. But then, he hesitated. "But, you know how it is, you were married..."

"Well yeah, I was, but he was–"

"A boring old fart?" He offered, and it took all of Amelie's strength not to push him off of his makeshift stool and into the snow. “A miserable old man who stripped you of your happiness and spent half of your marriage–”

"Shut up!" She definitely could have hit him then. But she held her composure "Anyway, Jennifer isn't like him. She's so nice, and pretty, and OK she might be a bit argumentative sometimes but she does care!"

"I know! You don't have to pour salt in the wound…" he muttered with a shake of his head. "She's not the problem, not really. No, it's my fault…"

"Why what have you done?" She grew concerned.

"Nothing! Not really..." he stopped in his tracks. She knew he would need a little bit of a nudge to continue on down the path he had begun to tread.

She breathed a heavy sigh before she took the plunge. But she had to.

She had to know what was bothering him. Because maybe then that smile would return to his face.

"Is it Dorian?"

The world quaked beneath her feet.

"Excuse me?" He scoffed, then he coughed, then he shook his head so violently that it must have made him dizzy. 

"Well, everyone was saying–"

"Oh Maker's sake Amy, it was a joke…" he sighed. "It's just a bit of fun, that's all." He turned to her with a scowl as he lowered his voice to a frantic, agitated whisper. "Is this because of that time you saw me sneak out of parents home to see the Duke? Because that was before I got married and I haven't done anything since so–"

"I don't doubt that at all!" She reassured him, but she wasn't backing down. She saw the way they had been together, the way that Dorian had pined for him as they stood and waited for him to come back to them. 

She wasn't stupid. 

"There's nothing wrong with having a bit of a...fancy...for someone. Providing you don't act on it, of course. Or if you do, well..." she told him, while the scowl on his face only deepened. "Anyway, you've made friends here, you've made a name for yourself, it seems. I get it if you don't want to come home, as disappointing as that may be for me."

He looked at her in disbelief. "You do?”

"Yeah, if that's what you really want. You don't have to apologise," she said with a smile, and she almost got on in return. "Just _please_ make sure you write to us, _and_ Jennifer!”

Those traces of a smile fell away, lost as he turned away from her gaze in a show of discomfort. 

"Yeah, I will," he assured her with a sigh that was far from convincing.

"Promise?"

"_Yes. _I promise," he sighed again, somewhat more convincingly. But what else could she do except force the pen and paper into his hand until he wrote the letter?

She had interfered enough. The rest was up to him.

"Hey, what are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be resting?" 

Some had asked the same question she had asked as they approached the two of them. 

She wasn't surprised to see who it was.

Dorian smiled as he hovered behind them. She could see the relief in that smile, the blessings that were being passed to the Maker behind his eyes. But she also saw a hint of concern, a trace of worry in his beady stare.

"Well, why don't you go and tell that to _them_," he gestured with his good arm to Leliana and Cassandra, who were having a heated discussion at the far edge of the camp. "Their arguing is driving me up the wall, although I marginally prefer that to the singing."

"You heard that, then?" Dorian scoffed.

"Every excruciating detail," he told him with a groan. "Anyway, I was thinking of going for a walk, if any of you wanted to join me? Solas has been trying to talk to me all night and, so far, I've managed to successfully avoid him."

"Understandable. I'll come with you, if you like?" Dorian asked somewhat nervously, and Amelie couldn't help but notice the light that had begun to shine in her brother's eyes.

"Amy? Are you coming?" He asked as he turned to her with a smile on his face that had been so noticeably absent before. 

"It's OK, I'll leave you to it," she told him with a smile that was nowhere near as luminous as his own.

Dorian had brought that smile to his face. He had been his distraction, just as Cullen had been hers the day before. 

But that wasn't the only reminder of the night before. The smile on their faces reminded her so much of the one that she had worn when she had laughed at Cullen’s invitation to play chess. And there was something else there too, an understanding that let them fall straight into a deep conversation as they walked away from her into the horizon. She had had that with Cullen too. They hadn’t understood each other once, but once they had, she had found him to be the only one that she had wanted to talk to.

Maker, did that mean she...fancied him? She could see it so easily in her brother’s eyes, and yet, somehow, not her own.

No. She had to forget. She had a home to get back to, a daughter that she had left alone, half a world away from where she was now.

She had to go home, even if that meant leaving her brother behind once again. Even if that meant failing in her duty to bring him home. Even if that meant that she would never see Cullen again…

No. She had to forget. She had to move forward.

She had been here far, far, too long.

She had to go home. As soon as she was able, she had to go home, no matter how much that may hurt her now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to use this fic as an exercise in learning digital art so sometimes I do illustrations to go with chapters. I did one for this one of Amelie in the coat that was DEFINITELY not Cullens *wink* which you can see in my icon or the full version on my twitter (@inqsmabari). There'll be another one for chapter 14 too ;)
> 
> Also I'll be having a week off next week so if you want to make sure you don't miss the next update when it happens, then sub to updates to be notified of when I upload! 
> 
> Thanks so much <3


	13. Frozen Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition cannot rest on top of the mountain for too long. They set out on a journey to find a new home that may, or may not, be waiting for them. But all Amelie can think about is the home she left behind, and how this journey will only bring her closer to the day when she says goodbye to her brother, her new friends, and the Inquisition, perhaps for good.

Outside of her tent, the Frostback Mountains were drenched in an inky blackness that left everything dark in its wake. The coming of the night had brought with it a bitter chill that forced Amelie to shiver within the safety of her bedroll. And while she did, she dreamt of home.

She dreamt of a morning where she lay in her bed until the time for breakfast had long passed. She dreamt that she rose from her bed and traipsed through the halls of her home with her nightgown catching on her slippered feet. She dreamt that she ate her breakfast while the sun slipped into its midday position, and while Adelaide scowled at the crusts on her slice of toast.

Adelaide. She was just as Amelie remembered her, with her flaming red hair sticking out at all angles in a mass of frizz.

But there was something wrong about all of this.

Her clothes. They were different. Her skirts had been replaced by those tight fitting trousers that emphasised the worst of her curves, and she wore a coat that was white, but freckled with dirt and mud and something else that was a strange rusty coloured brown.

Her hair. She picked up a lock of her long hair and ran her eyes down its length. It hadn't been braided. 

And there was something else too. _Someone_ else.

Another hand joined her own as fingers laced through her long, loose lengths of fiery red hair. She turned sharply, alarmed by the sudden tug on the roots of her hair.

It was a man. A tall man, who’s defined muscles peered out at her from behind his unbuttoned shirt. He was untidy in that sense, but everything else about him was neat, clean, _handsome_, with hair that was forced into place by a product as strong as himself, and piercing eyes that were as golden as the dawn.

In her dream, she was speechless, stunned into silence.

But she wanted to speak, she wanted to...

"Hey, Amy. Hey, Amy. Hey...AMY!" 

The dream fell apart around her within an instant. Her eyes opened slowly, reluctantly, and she woke in the tent that she had called her home for the past few days.

But it wasn't home. 

It was a tent. It was cold. It was miserable. She lay in a bedroll that sat upon a layer of glistening, crystalline, snow, and barely protected her from its fierce bite.

It wasn't home. It was far from it.

She sighed, and her eyes fluttered to a close once again. She wanted to return to that dream, she wanted to return to her home, to Adelaide, to that man who’s fingers had tugged at her hair.

"AMY!"

Her eyes opened violently. This time, she saw who had dared to wake her, and it wasn’t the man with the blonde hair and golden brown eyes.

"WHAT!?" She all but screamed as her brother's face peered over her, while he nudged impatiently at her exposed shoulder with the palm of his free hand.

For a while, the rudeness of her awakening made her angry. She could have murdered him for interrupting such a blissful dream. But the bitter chill of the wind woke her faster than any alarm call could hope to do, and soon, her anger was replaced by a sense of relief.

He was still here, thank the Maker.

"Come on, you need to get up! Both of you, hurry up!" He told her with another insistent nudge while, behind him, she saw Josephine sat up in her bedroll with her dark hair sticking out at all angles. Just like Adelaide's did...

"May I ask _why_?" Josephine groaned with her voice scratchy and husky, a far cry from the gentle, sing-song tones that she normally wore so elegantly. And yet, in spite of her croaky voice and her tangled hair, she still looked undeniably beautiful, and she still had far more charm and grace than Amelie could hope to muster even when she was fully awake.

"Because we're moving on, Jo!" He told her with a voice that was far too loud and excitable for such an early hour. "So hurry up, we want to make good progress before the sun sets."

"We're going already?" Amelie asked as she rubbed the sleep from her tired eyes. "Don't you need to rest? We all thought you were dead only yesterday."

"No, I don't," he insisted with a defensive air that told her that he was lying through his teeth. "What I need is to get out of this mountain camp before it drives me up the wall,"

"I think we all do," she heard Josephine mutter behind him as she fought with her tangled locks of hair.

She knew it was no use arguing, not when his mind had so clearly been made up. "Well then, where are we going?" 

"No idea, Solas is leading the way," 

"Solas?" Josephine turned to him with a single eyebrow raised. "I don't think I've ever seen you speak to him. Since when were you two friends?"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," he scoffed with a look of disgust while a shiver crept into his good shoulder. "There's just something about him that – I don't know – doesn't sit right with me I guess. He's just...a bit weird."

"Then why exactly _are_ we following him?" Amelie asked him with her eyes narrowed as she forced herself to sit upright.

"You're not exactly selling this plan to us, I have to say," Josephine added with an eyebrow raised.

"Well I don't see anyone offering any better ideas!" He told them as his eyes flitting between the pair of them with a degree of impatience, but she noticed that they lingered upon Josephine for far longer than they did on her, and she did too, hiding her gaze from him while a flush appeared on her cheeks. "Now if you lot hadn't spent the last few days bickering amongst yourselves, you might have come up with an idea of yourselves. But until you do, we're going to have to follow Solas and hope he actually leads us to this fortress he told me about and not into some kind of death trap. That's presuming it isn't some bullshit he cooked up after smoking too much elfroot."

Josephine had nothing to add, only a sigh of defeat that marked her rise from her bedroll.

That was it, argument over. 

"Well if it is...well...bullshit – as you put it – and I can't get home to my daughter, then this strange man is going to have a lot to answer for," Amelie sighed as she too rose from her bedroll and braved the cold morning air. 

He was taken aback at first. Then, he let out the hint of a laugh. "Don't worry, he will. I'd rather not be eternally lost on this damned mountain either. We all have lives we need to return to at some point."

She said nothing, but she thought that she had understood.

One day, he would return to what he had left behind. 

_One day_.

"Anyway, I'd better go and wake everyone else up," he said suddenly, shaking off his previous comment as quickly as he had spoken it. "Don't be too long, ladies, I'd like to actually get somewhere today."

He leapt out of their tent with far more energy than Amelie could hope to muster at such an early hour. And it really _was_ early, too. The sun had only just begun to rise, with a hint of light peering out over the horizon to turn the night sky from black to darkest blue.

The fire was dying in the middle of the camp, but torches lit her way as she emerged from her tent and found herself in the midst of cacophony of chaos.

Tents collapsed around her one by one, while people rushed to and fro with their arms filled with their belongings that they packed onto the few horses that they had managed to salvage from Haven. How they had survived, she couldn't even begin to imagine.

The mountain camp, once a place of solemnity, then a place of calm, had become the ery epicentre of a thundering, chaotic storm.

She’d be glad to get out of here. She’d be glad to get home. If only they weren’t leaving so damn early...

"Good morning Lady, umm, sorry. Just Amelie. I mean, Amelie," a voice called to her. It was one she recognised from that other night, the one she had tried so desperately hard to forget.

Her cheeks burned beneath Cullen’s piercing gaze. Oh Maker, what was it about him that made her so...flustered?

Then she remembered her dream. 

The man in her dream. The man who had stood in front of her with his chest exposed, with his hair neat and his eyes the colour of gold.

Cullen. It had been Cullen.

"Oh, good morning," she said quickly, turning to acknowledge him for just a brief second. 

Maker, this was bad. She needed to find something else to focus on, a distraction.

Perhaps that was all he wanted to say. Perhaps he would move on after saying his ‘good morning’.

Her eyes travelled the camp that was caught in a flurry of chaos, as people rushed about to get themselves ready for the journey ahead. She found Sera not too far away from her, who let out a stream of swear words as she followed Lionel out of her tent with Blackwall beside her. 

She noticed something then, a light in his eyes that betrayed the glee upon his face, something which had been missing since he had returned to them.

Maker, was she glad to see it again.

“Um, Amelie,” Cullen said with a loud cough, forcing Amelie to turn to him once again and face those golden eyes that could so easily bring a blush to her cheeks. “I wanted to...I was just...going to load my stuff up onto a horse.”

“Oh right, OK,” she said somewhat dismissively, with her eyes once again attempting to travel elsewhere.

“Well, I just thought I’d ask if you, um, if you had anything you didn’t want to carry? On the journey, I mean,” He seemed just as flustered as she was, and she could have sworn there was a hint of red rising upon his cheeks. “It’s just that, well, I could pack it up for you if...if you wanted?” 

“No, thank you,” she said with a smile in spite of the burning of her pale freckled cheeks. After all, it was nice of him to offer. “I didn’t think to stop and get anything when we left Haven, I only have the clothes on my back.”

“Oh, I see,” he said somewhat awkwardly as he shifted from one foot to the next. “I mean, I didn’t either. This here is just your coat, and some papers–”

“Papers?” She interjected, her embarrassment vanishing within seconds as she turned to catch his gaze for the first time since he had approached her. “You have parchment?”

“Oh, yes, I do! I borrowed some from Josephine, so I could write out what…” his face fell suddenly. “What happened. Like a report, I guess.” He explained with a muted, solemn tone. “I know we’re out in the middle of nowhere, and we’re hardly even an Inquisition anymore, and writing a report should probably be the least of my worries. But, well, maybe it will be helpful, one day, I don’t know.”

“Maker’s sake, Cullen. We’ve been stuck out here freezing our arses off for who knows how long, and you still can’t take a break,” a sigh announced Lionel’s arrival as he abandoned his wake up call and came to stand between the two of them, much to Amelie’s relief. “What are you both doing, anyway? We haven’t got time to stand around talking each other to death! We’ve got a long road ahead...apparently...”

“Yes, sorry,” Cullen said quickly, as he turned his gaze down towards his feet while a hint of a blush blossomed on his cheeks. “I was just...I was going to load up my things on one of the horses, and…”

“And you mistook my sister for a horse?”

“No! No, definitely not!” Cullen turned from pink, to red, to deepest scarlett, as Amelie watched the amusement grow on her brother’s face.

“Well, I wouldn't fault you if you had done. After all, horses are just...such beautiful creatures,” Lionel said as he took on a solemn tone that paired with a wink in Amelie’s direction. Cullen, meanwhile, stood with his mouth agape and his cheeks burning crimson. “Aren’t you glad I went back for the horses now? Yes, you were right, it _was_ stupid and I get why you shouted at me back there. But, now we don’t have to carry anything, so you can thank me for that one later.”

Cullen tried, but failed, to give him a response. His mouth opened and closed a few times, while his eyes travelled towards Amelie in a plea for help.

Amelie didn’t even try to help. She had no idea how to, and she was far, far, too flustered.

_Why had she dreamed about this man? Why did he make her so...nervous?_

Silence fell over them. Her brother stood in the middle of them, looking from one of them, to the other, as if he was waiting for one of them to speak. 

But neither of them did, and eventually, he gave up. “Anyway, Cullen, hadn’t you better get going? Don’t want to leave you behind, do we?”

"No. Yes! Yes, I'd better...go…" he said with a clear of his throat as he brought his pile of papers closer to his chest, while the bundle of cloth beneath his other arm almost slipped from his hold. 

Released from her brother's curious gaze, Cullen fled. Although Amelie did notice that he went in the opposite direction to where the horses had been tied up. 

"Well, well, well. What's gotten into him?" Lionel said with a sigh as he turned back to her with a laugh of disbelief.

But she didn't laugh with him. Her words were stiff, awkward. "I don't know."

"Hmm,” he stared after him for a while, watching him as he turned sharply on his heel to head back towards the area where the horses had gathered. “He’s a bit odd, isn’t he?" He turned to her then with a bemused expression, but his hazel eyes seemed beady and interrogative as they stared down at her. “Don’t you think?”

"Yeah," she said as she tried to expel a laugh that ended up sounding more like a squeaky cough. "He’s, umm...he’s a bit strange, I guess..."

She thought he was anything _but_ strange. She thought he was kind, beneath his steely exterior. She thought he was handsome, beneath that ever present frown. She thought he was interesting, in spite of what her brother may think.

And she had begun to wonder if, perhaps, her thoughts had gone much further than that. 

They certainly had done in her dream.

"Yeah..." He said then, staring down at Amelie with his eyes narrowed. But with a shake of his head, the interrogation ended. "Anyway, I’d better finish waking everyone up, I guess.” 

“Yeah, right, OK,” she said quickly, but he was gone before she had even finished speaking, lost amongst the throng of people who fell into step behind him as if it were second nature to them, even as he dragged them out of their tents in the early hours of the morning and threatened them with a lengthy trek through the snow.

Dorian didn’t look pleased. She heard him grumble and moan beneath his breath. But not loud enough for her brother to hear. But in spite of his protestations, he too fell into step behind him , just as everyone else did.

He seemed to have that effect, she noticed. It was so easy for everyone to listen to him, to follow him, even when it was cold and dark and there was little hope that where they were heading would be any better than what lay behind them.

But they followed him, the faithful following the one blessed by Andraste, because what else could they do? And what else could _she_ do? She wanted to go home, _needed_ to go home, and she wouldn't be going home if she did nothing but sit in a flimsy tent on a cold mountainside for the rest of eternity.

So she followed him, with all of the others. She walked at the side of Josephine, then Vivienne, then Sera for a brief time.

But never Cullen. She kept her distance, making sure to stay well behind his lumbering figure as he trapsed up the mountain not too far out of her brother's shadow.

He spoke to her once on the journey, commenting on the beauty of the crimson sky that burned above their heads.

She agreed. She smiled. Then, she burned as brilliantly as the setting sun.

They didn't speak again, thank the Maker. But as she kept her distance, she watched how her brother was flagged almost constantly by Dorian, the man he had become so close to. 

Everything between them seemed so easy. They fell into step next to each other with ease, from the beginning of the journey to the moment the sun had set; even in spite of their difference in height that she imagined took a lot of effort on her brother’s part. They talked to one another almost constantly, and as they did so they smiled, and they laughed, even though the day was rapidly turning into night, and the warmth of the sun was giving way to a bitter wind that tore through their aching muscles and bit at their chilled bones.

She watched them, and her mind wandered.

Why wasn’t she as confident as her brother? Why couldn’t she talk to Cullen with such ease?

She froze.

Where had that thought come from? Why had she asked herself that?

Cullen...

She thought of his smile, his crooked smile paired with his warm brown eyes. She thought of the silly, awkward things he would say, and the way in which those words had comforted her, coupled with the feeling of his arms around her. 

Perhaps she…

No. It was nothing. He was a handsome man, and he had looked out for her, but that was it.

Nothing more. 

Her feelings were nothing more than a stupid fancy, brought on by a moment of weakness on her part.

But they were there, and they were real.

Her mind travelled back to her dream from the night before. She remembered how she had been so happy, at home, with Adelaide, with _him_.

She remembered his smile, his eyes, his hair that had been forced into submission in that neat, pushed back style that he always wore. She remembered how she had been speechless, stunned, how she had so desperately wanted to speak to him, how she had felt that there was something that needed to be said.

But what was it? What had she wanted to say?

She hadn’t known then, but she thought that she did now. Out here, in the darkness, in the cold, in the silence, she knew what her heart wanted her to say even as her lips betrayed her.

But he was gone. She had wanted him gone. 

But she hadn’t, not really.

She had wanted him there, with her. She had wanted to tell him.

But she couldn’t. She just...couldn’t.

That was why she continued to avoid him. Not because she wanted to, but because she _had_ to. Her body wouldn’t let her do what her heart so desperately desired.

So it was best to avoid him, and that was what she did, right up until the moment when the sun had finally set in a brilliant display of reds and purples, and the Inquisition was forced to come to a stop and set up camp.

The night had come. Everything was quiet now. It was dark, cold, the world around her all but coming to a stop as she sat on her bedroll and watch the stars begin to appear one by one in the sky above her head.

It was just like an evening at home, when Adelaide had gone to bed and Amelie was left to read, or sew, or drink tea and eat the cakes that she didn't want Adelaide to eat.

They'd make her too hyper, anyway, and they were very, very nice.

_Oh Adelaide..._

But there was still a hint of light upon the horizon. The night sky was not yet black; a streak of purple cut through the darkness like a vicious wound that tore through delicate skin.

Just like the scar upon Cullen's face…

"I am exhausted!" Josephine threw her bedroll down onto the floor beside her and collapsed on top of it, providing a useful distraction from Amelie’s troubled thoughts. "Oh Maker, I can’t believe we're being forced to sleep beneath the stars because, apparently, we don't have _time _to put up tents." She grumbled with a roll of her eyes, before those eyes turned towards Vivienne, who looked too comfortable to be sitting on the snow covered floor beneath a black sky. "Vivienne, where _did_ you get all those furs from?"

"I settled in early, dear, settled myself in for the night while you were all messing about over there," Vivienne told her with a smug look on her face.

"Well...I was...I was arguing that we needed to put tents up, actually," Josephine said quietly as she turned away from Vivienne's smug gaze. "Anyway, how are you, Amelie?"

Oh Maker.

She swallowed, hoping to hide the tide of scarlett red that seemed to have made a permanent home upon her face. "I’m fine, thank you.”

_Fine_. It was such an easy lie to tell. 

She hadn’t been fine in a long time. She hadn’t been fine since she had left home.

_Home…_

She missed it so badly. She wanted to speak to them all, tell them what had happened, tell them that she was OK. 

She wanted Adelaide to know that she was OK, just in case she missed her. Just in case...

But instead, she was stuck in the middle of nowhere, being forced to sleep beneath the stars with Vivienne and…

"Josephine!” she burst out suddenly as a thought jumped into her mind faster than she could keep up. Words were now tumbling out of her mouth before she could even begin to think over them. “I heard that you brought some parchment with you. Would I be able to use some?"

"Oh not you as well!" Josephine said with a roll of her eyes and an overly exaggerated sigh. "I'm kidding, of course you can! Although I am beginning to run low, what with Cullen taking so much of it."

Amelie's heart skipped a beat at the sound of his name.

Cullen, _that_ was where she had conjured that thought from.

"Oh don't worry, you can use some too, I don't mind!" She told her in a voice that was far too cheerful. "Were you thinking of writing to your family?"

"Yeah," she sighed, both from the relief of having something to distract herself with, and with the joy of being able to speak to her family once again. "It's been a while since they've heard from me. I just hope they aren’t worried."

All thoughts of Cullen vanished from her mind. 

Where there had been embarrassment, there was now guilt, despair, and shame. 

Shame. Because she had done exactly what her brother had done, what she had told him off for. 

She'd left them. All of them. She'd left Adelaide.

She had to get home. As soon as she could, she had to get home.

"It will be OK, Amelie. You'll see them all soon!" Josephine said cheerfully. "Apparently we haven't got too far to go."

Vivienne smirked. "Apparently…"

"Oh stop it, Vivienne," Josephine scolded with a playful glare. "Anyway, Amelie, you go ahead and write to your family. Then get Leliana to send your letters as soon as we arrive at...wherever we're going."

She reached into her small cloth bag for the board she had carried everywhere in Haven, which came with its own inkpot and quill that, mercifully, hadn't broken.

What would they all do without Josephine?

"Thank you so much!" She told her as her lips broke out into an uncontrollable smile. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

She had said those words without even realising, an outpouring of the thoughts that she hadn't even realised she had conjured. 

Her embarrassment had returned. Where had all of these feelings come from? It was as if what had happened the other night, that outpouring of all of her grief and despair, had opened the floodgates for all of her feelings to pour out. 

With her mask gone, she seemed to be so raw, so fragile.

"I'll just...I'll find somewhere quiet to write these," she said as a blush crept into her cheeks. "But thank you again."

"You're very welcome," Josephine told her with a warm smile that made Amelie blush even more, and she would flee from this too, just as she had fled from Cullen on that night in the camp.

Thoughts of Cullen threatened to creep back into her mind again, but she forced them away.

Her family. She had to think about her family, about Adelaide.

She would go and find a quiet place, somewhere in the darkness away from the makeshift camp that was barely more than a scattering of people shivering beneath piles of furs, or blankets, or nothing but their bedrolls as they sheltered from the cold.

Someone else had had the same idea as her. Two people, in fact. They stood so far away from the camp that they were little more than silhouettes on the horizon, framed by the light of the ghostly pale moons.

They were close, possibly sheltering for warmth.

She went in the opposite direction, with nothing but her furs and her bedroll to keep her warm.

And her coat, the one she had borrowed from Cullen.

Cullen...she wondered where he was, whether he too felt the chill of the night air, or whether his Ferelden genes were enough to keep him warm.

He had felt warm on that night…

No. Stop. She couldn't think of him, she had to think of her family. Her mother, Claudette, Adelaide.

_Adelaide..._

She pushed all thoughts of Cullen out of her mind and wrote her letters. It came easily to her; the tutors her mother had paid for in her youth had been worth it, apparently. 

But it wasn't as easy as it normally was. Something was distracting her, bothering her.

She'd be home soon, or one day, at least. But as happy as that thought made her, there was something that dampened that happiness.

She'd have to say goodbye to her brother, again. But not just him, to all of this. To her new friends. Josephine, who had been so kind to her. Vivienne, who was beautiful and gentle and caring. Sera, who was as mischievous as she was sweet – underneath it all.

And Cullen. That hit her the hardest. Harder even than the thought of saying goodbye to her brother, as ashamed as she was to admit that.

But then again, she'd never really lose her brother. In spite of everything that had happened to him, she had faith that he would come home one day. 

It was different with Cullen. He wasn’t family, she barely even knew him. 

What if she never saw him again?

It shouldn't bother her. After all, she barely knew him, and she had spent the past few days trying to avoid him. 

But it did. 

It did.

Maker, it did.

She couldn't deny it, not anymore. She felt something when he was around, something stronger than she had ever felt before.

She wanted to be around him, but she didn't. She wanted to talk to him, but she didn't. She wanted him to hold her again, just like he had before, but she…

Maker, she knew exactly what she wanted. 

Maker, she was in trouble. 

_“There was nothing wrong with having a bit of a...fancy...for someone,_” she had told her brother. And yet, she felt the need to hide it herself.

But if she hid it any longer, then she'd be going home, and would never see him again, never talk to him, never have the chance to be held by him just as she had been held on that fateful night.

Her cheeks burned, as did her heart. But she knew what she had to do.

Tell him. No.

Yes. 

Tell him. No. 

_Yes_. Yes!

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t speak to him.

She didn’t have the courage.

A letter. She was good at writing letters. All of those tutors she had had as a child, they had taught her to write so elegantly.

She would write him a letter, then he would know.

And maybe he would reply. Or not. She wouldn’t be around for long enough to know.

But she _had _to tell him. She didn’t know why. She just...did.

The quill flashed across the parchment as the black ink bled through in the shape of words she could barely see; it was far too dark, and the sky was as black as the ink on the parchment.

But it wouldn't matter. She was good at writing letters, and this had come from the heart.

She would read those words again in the morning, and then once again before she left the Inquisition and set off home to Ostwick.

And when she did so, she would see exactly what had been dwelling in the depths of her heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey i'm back! for a bit anyway, I've got one more chapter of this first "part" and then i'm ordering animal crossing so no joke i'm going on a much needed break from fic writing to replenish my spoons while i play that haha. Hope you all enjoyed this one and see you all again next week for a big one! :o


	14. The Rising Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition has made its new home in an abandoned fortress called 'Skyhold'. Amelie begins to say her goodbyes to the friends she has met, and sets out to deliver the letters she penned on a night beneath the stars.

It was a beautiful day, the day they reached Skyhold. The sun shone so brilliantly in the clear, blue sky above their heads that the whole world seemed to glow around them.

It was as if the Maker himself had blessed them on this day. Maybe he had, because Andraste's herald had never been so revered.

From the ashes of Haven, Inquisitor Trevelyan had risen, with all the glory and splendour of a griffin in flight.

In his shadow, Amelie dreamed of home.

Her home wasn't so far away for her now, even though it still very much was. She had nothing to pack, with most, if not all, of her belongings now lying beneath a pile of snow in the lost village of Haven. There was only a retinue of people that her brother had to muster to accompany her as far as the Waking Sea, and a day where the weather promised to be as bright as that first day in Skyhold.

Then, she could leave.

But she couldn’t go home just yet. People had to be mustered to escort her home, plans had to be laid out, and she had some things to do first. Most importantly of those, were the letters she had to send. One to her parents and her sister, explaining where she had been. One to her home, to Adelaide, telling her that she would be home soon.

And then the other one, the one she had written on the first night of their long journey here, as the two moons caused specks of crystalline light to twinkle in the snow beneath her.

She had sent the others first, the ones to her family in Ostwick. On a day that was grey and cloudy and just a little bit cold, she found Leliana at the top of Skyhold’s highest tower and passed the letters into her care, to send out on the wings of her jet black ravens while she left the towering walls of Skyhold behind her.

And she made sure to say goodbye to her too, just as she had said goodbye to everyone else. Josephine, Vivienne, Sera, leaving them with a kind word and gentle kiss upon the cheek in the Marcher fashion – except for Sera, who said that was “minging”. But in spite of their bittersweet goodbyes, no one was truly upset, there were no tears shed. Everyone was far too happy – ecstatic, even – from having found this place, from having a roof above their heads once again, while she was happy to be going home at last.

But there was a part of her that was not, a part of her that felt pained at the thought that she may never see these people again, that she was being forced to say goodbye to those who had been so kind to her and her brother. And that pain only grew as she went to say her penultimate goodbye.

It came with the delivery of the final letter, the one that had weighed her down ever since she had penned it, as it sat in the inner pocket of the coat she had borrowed from Cullen.

Perhaps she could return his coat too, trading it for a letter that she had found herself too embarrassed to reread.

Maker, she hoped it wasn’t _too_ bad. But she couldn't bring herself to open it and find out.

In spite of how embarrassing it may or may not be, she couldn’t _not_ deliver it, not now that her feelings were out there, etched into parchment and sealed with a piece of twine in place of a hardy lump of wax. If she took it home with her, or even threw it into the fireplace never to be seen by anyone else, it would weigh her down for the rest of her life.

She would regret it if she chose not to deliver that letter, she knew. He had to know how grateful she was for his support. He had to know how happy he made her feel.

He just...had to. She couldn’t explain it, but then she found herself struggling to explain much of what had happened since she had arrived in Ferelden. 

That was why, on her final day in Skyhold, one that was graced by the presence of a beautiful golden sun, she set out to find him. It didn’t take long. From the winding steps that carried pilgrims and soldiers alike into the main keep of Skyhold, she could see him in the courtyard below scowling over a makeshift table littered with maps and papers.

He was busy again. Good. He had been ever since they had arrived, following her brother around like a sheep following its shepherd. He always seemed to have papers falling out of his arms and orders barking out of his lips. 

It was funny how, when she had first arrived, they could barely spend a moment in one another’s company without getting irritated. Now, if Lionel was irritated at his almost constant presence by his side, he wasn’t showing it.

But then again, he was a very patient man. He always had been, unless he decided that he didn’t want to be.

She watched him for a while, the letter in her coat pocket growing heavier with each second that passed. Could she do this? Could she really let him read what she had dared to write?

Perhaps not. But she _had_ to. She had to find the courage to give him that letter. She couldn’t leave her with regret panging at her heartstrings. She just didn’t know _how_. 

What if…?

She ran back inside the keep, but she wasn’t running away. Not this time. She turned right, then right again, briefly glancing towards Solas who had set himself up on the ground floor of the same tower that Leliana was now resident in. But leaving that tower behind, she set out onto the battlements, where the clear blue sky above her heads had only just become home to the golden sun. 

Below her, Cullen was still working. She made sure to check.

She found the tower at the end of the battlements, the one that he had set up camp in.

She’d found that out from Sera, who had come out of there the day before with a mischievous grin on her face. She had been very pleased to tell Amelie about the dead fish that she had left in his bedroll.

_“Wouldn’t go in there Amy-Wamy, something smells real, reaaallllll bad,” _

_”I don’t plan to,” _she had said, but that had been a lie.

It was dark inside the tower, although not as dark as it perhaps should have been, with the fireplace lying empty and the candles remaining unlit, unused, with their wicks completely intact.

The room was empty. There was a ladder in the middle of the room, and her eyes travelled up it in curiosity. That was when she saw the source of the light, a hole in the wooden roof that let in a trickle of sunlight, and a bitingly cold breeze.

No wonder he was working outside. But how he slept in here, she had no idea.

The lingering, festering, smell of dead fish didn’t help matters.

She shivered as the chill crept through the gap in the roof to make her hairs stand on end, while her eyes scanned the tiny room, hunting for a place to leave her letter. She was desperate to rid herself of it, it’s weight only increasing in her hold as she continued her search.

She had to find somewhere, quickly. Before he returned.

But she hesitated.

What was she doing here? Why had she done this? Maybe she should–

She heard something outside. A raven, perhaps, flying over that hole in the roof with its wings beating in the cold mountain air. Or, a soldier, searching for their commander.

Or the commander himself.

Maker, no! Panic surged through her veins, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest as the adrenaline in her blood roared in the bowels of her troubled mind. She searched once again for somewhere to put her letter, more frantically this time.

But there was nothing here except a bedroll, a few neat piles of clothes and papers and reports, and the empty fireplace.

She heard another noise from outside. Sweat began to bead on her forehead and dampen the fingers that clasped at the letter in her hand. In a panic, she all but threw the letter down on the small lip that adorned the fireplace, dropping it so quickly it was as if the paper had set alight instantaneously and singed the tips of her fingers.

And with that, her last letter had been delivered. 

Relief surged through her as quickly as the adrenaline had done.

It was over. She had done it.

It was time to go home.

She flew towards the door and pulled it open with a firm grip. But as she stepped out of the door, the golden light of the rising sun was hidden from view.

She had all but walked headfirst into Commander Cullen, who looked down at her with an expression that was half confusion, half impatient scowl.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She said, dropping her gaze quickly as the sight of his warm brown eyes brought a blush to her pale cheeks. Maker, why did she always blush when he was near? “I was just...I’m just about to leave, and I’ve been saying goodbye to everyone, and–”

“You're leaving?” He asked her with a voice so quiet she was forced to meet his gaze once again, only to find him looking wounded, hurt, pained as he stared down at her with a solemn expression. “Today?”

The sadness in his expression threw her. “Yeah, everything’s ready, I’m just saying my goodbyes.”

Was he really that upset about her leaving? Did he...care?

“Oh. Oh, I...I see,” he turned away from her, his eyes settling upon the bustling courtyard below them. Then, his eyes returned to meet her own once again. “Wait! Your coat!”

“What?” She looked down at the sleeves of her coat with a frown on her face, then at the lacing at the front which hung a little bit too loosely. But then again, it wasn’t hers, and Cullen was just a little bit taller, and much broader, than herself. “Oh Maker, I almost forgot!” She ran in after him, finding herself once again in the dark, lifeless room. But this time, there was just a little more warmth to it.

Cullen stood near his bedroll with a bundle of cloth in his arm, and he held it out towards her with a smile on his face.

He looked so happy, so pleased with himself, and even more so when she took it from him with a smile that was equally as bright as his own.

“Thank you,” she smiled up at him even as her cheeks began to burn. “I’ll just give you back this one.”

“No, it’s fine,” he insisted, with that smile on his face only growing. “You can keep it.”

“Really? Are you sure?” She asked him with uncertainty in her tone. But beneath it all, there was a spark of happiness deep within her heart. It was a very nice coat, after all.

And it was his, something to remember him by.

Maker, she really was getting silly now...

“Yeah, in case you need a spare,” he told her with a smile as he pressed the old, white coat into her waiting arms. But as she grasped at it, ready and willing to take it from his arms, he didn’t let go, and neither did she. They stood, frozen in time, for what felt like an eternity. 

Their eyes did not move, their smiles did not fade. Together, they stood, waiting to see who would take the next step.

It was Cullen. His gaze abandoned hers, drifting over her shoulder where, suddenly, he tensed, his hackles raised, his eyes wide with curiosity, confusion, alarm.

“What’s that? That thing on the fireplace?” He asked almost to himself as he abandoned his hold upon her coat and marched towards the empty stone fireplace. “It wasn’t there when I left earlier.”

Amelie cried out in alarm. “Wait! That was just…”

Cullen halted his march and turned to her with his brows furrowed. Amelie found herself blushing once again.

“That was me, sorry,” Amelie admitted while a blush rose to her cheeks once again. Maker, it was suddenly very, very, warm in here. “I just...I wasn’t sure if I’d see you before I left. So I left a note. That’s all it is, really. Nothing important. Just a note...”

“Oh, I see,” he said as he relaxed into a smile. “That’s very kind of you, thank you. Should I read it now, seeing as we’re both here?”

“No!” She cried out in alarm just as he had turned towards that fireplace once again. The skin on her cheeks burned. “Sorry, it’s just...could you maybe...save it for when I’ve left?”

He looked at her with that same bemused expression.

“Well, I might find it embarrassing if you read it now,” she mumbled as the burning of her cheeks only intensified. “Not that there’s anything embarrassing in it, of course. But…”

Her words trailed off into silence, while a bird squawked in the skies above their heads, crying through the hole in the roof while the two of them squirmed awkwardly beneath its gaze.

She’d lost her ability to speak, silenced not only by the shame that emanated from that sealed parchment that he held in his hands, but also by his interrogative gaze. His golden brown eyes watched her beneath furrowed brows, and she knew that he was studying her, trying to figure out what she had done.

She dared not move. She dared not breathe.

She only waited for something, anything, to happen, for the world to start turning again.

It was Cullen who broke the silence, and it was a mercy.

“Alright, I’ll read it tonight,” he said then, and suddenly, the world was put to rights again. “But it’s nice of you to come and see me before you left, anyway. I really appreciate it.”

She smiled back at him, freed from the weight of her shame. “Well, you’ve been so nice to me, and…” 

She stopped again. 

He _had_ been nice to her. Too nice, considering how she had acted before. 

Something came to her then, something that a scrawl etched out onto parchment couldn’t ever hope to say, and she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t say it now, while he was here with her..

“There’s something I need to say to you, before I go,” she said with a sigh, her gaze dropping to the floor beneath her feet as she fidgeted with the coat that she held in her hands.

“What’s that?”

She took a deep breath, hoping to calm the nervous tremors in her hands. But she couldn’t.

Maker, why was this so difficult? Why was she struggling to say what her heart so desperately wanted her to say?

But no matter how hard it was, she had to do it.

She couldn’t leave here, knowing that there was unfinished business to attend to.

So she took a deep breath, another one, and she said her piece.

“Well, I think that I should...apologise,” she began as she took another deep breath as if she was gasping for air. “I think...I feel...as if I misjudged you, when I first came to Haven, and I may have been a bit harsh to you to begin with...”

“That’s not–”

“No,” she insisted, shutting him down and leaving him to stand with his mouth agape. “It’s just...it’s not an excuse really, but we’re all so protective of each other in my family, and we do get a little...defensive, at times. But you’ve proven to be so kind, and you’ve been so good to me. So I do feel a little bad that I came across so...strongly.”

“Amelie...I wasn’t exactly very welcoming that day either,” he said with a chuckle that brought a wave of warmth to her heart until that chuckle faded, and his gaze dropped to the floor with a gentle sigh. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, but I am very glad that we got to know each other better afterwards.”

“You are? ”She found herself smiling once again as his eyes once again found her own.

“Yeah, I am,” he was smiling too, and suddenly, the room wasn’t cold or lifeless anymore. It was as if the candles in their holders had been lit, as if the fireplace was no longer empty, and had instead been filled the driest logs that sparked a roaring fire. It was as if there was no hole in the roof, as if there was furniture to adorn the cold stone walls. 

There was warmth where once there was cold. There was life where once it was barren.

There was something in her heart that had not been there before. Joy, hope, and a burning desire to stay in this room forever, to forget the home that she was meant to be returning to.

Her dream of home vanished, if only for a second. Instead, she thought of a life here, one that was just like her brothers. She could wake whenever she wanted, she could wear clothes that were comfortable, even if they showed too much of her less-than-flattering parts, rather than the ones that her mother would want her to wear. She could talk to people who were normal, who truly wanted to be friends, rather than use her for political gain.

And she could talk to Cullen as much as she pleased.

But then the guilt returned to her. 

_Adelaide…_

How could she dream of such a thing when Adelaide was waiting for her? When _all_ of them were waiting for her?

She couldn’t afford to be distracted, not when she had a home to return to, a family she had left behind. 

She couldn’t do what her brother had done, she couldn’t leave them all and begin a new life here.

_But it would be so easy_.

She shook the thoughts from her head and steeled herself once again. 

She was leaving, she was going home, returning to where she belonged. 

Which meant saying goodbye to so many people she had come to care for, including this man who she cared for just a little bit too much, she was beginning to realise.

It was silly. It was childish. It was a fancy that had blossomed in a world that had been turned upside down. They had spent time together in the strangest of circumstances, that was all. But he had been kind to her, in a world where so few people, so few men, had been.

She had gotten ahead of herself, she had let her guard down and let these thoughts overcome her.

It was nothing, and anything that was there was contained in that letter on his fireplace, never to be seen by herself again, never to be acted upon.

The sun had long since risen into the sky. The morning had come. It was time to say goodbye, to leave this fantasy behind, to return to the place she was meant to be.

Home. Not here. Home.

“Cullen, I need to go,” she said finally, her tone sounding as reluctant as she felt. But it was time. 

“Of course, yes,” he said quickly, shuffling towards her ever so slightly while his eyes took on a lost, mournful, expression. “Will I see you again? I mean...um...will you be coming back, to, to visit?”

“Perhaps, but I can’t make any promises,” she said with a smile, and she could have sworn there was a hint of sadness in his golden brown eyes. Was he really that sad to see her leave? No, he was just being polite. Surely... “But it was nice meeting you, and thank you again for looking out for me.”

“You’re welcome,” he said as he mirrored her smile, but that hint of sadness in his eyes only grew until it was unmistakable. His words were quiet, muted, he spoke as if his words were laden with grief. “Goodbye, Amelie.”

“Goodbye, Cullen,” her words were almost a whisper in return, so quiet that they almost carried themselves away with the breeze that entered from the hole in the roof above their heads.

But even if they did, it would not matter. Because she would never forget what she did next, and she doubted he would either.

Out of instinct, she said her goodbyes in the way that they did in the Free Marches. She brought herself closer to him and reached up for one, light, kiss upon the cheek.

His skin was cold beneath her touch, or it was to begin with. Then, it burned. 

And so did she.

It was common for ladies of the Free Marches to say their goodbyes in such a manner, and even more so for women from Orlais. Her Orlesian grandmother would often leave two kisses upon each cheek as both a greeting and a goodbye.

She had done it to Josephine, to Vivienne, to Leliana. Not to Sera, who had seen her do it to Vivienne and told her in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want her slobber anywhere near her cheeks. Except a blush had crept onto her cheeks when she had said that.

Perhaps it was strange for a Ferelden. Perhaps that’s why it had felt so weird when she had done it to him.

It was just a kiss on the cheek, nothing more. And yet, it stayed with her long after she left his office on that day, as her mind swam with the memory of how his icy cold skin had burned at her touch. Then she thought of the bead of sweat upon his cheek that had tasted unpleasant and salty. She thought of the scratchy remnants of the beard he had finally shaved after their long trek through the wilderness. She thought of how flummoxed he had looked when she had pulled away, how his mouth had hung agape as he had fallen into silence.

It was just a kiss on the cheek, nothing more. And yet, her cheeks burned just as brilliantly as his had, her heart had skipped a beat when she had felt her lips press against his skin, and now it fluttered in the depths of her chest as she held the coat he had repaired close to her torso. 

The coat smelt of him, she noticed. The same scent that she had smelt when he had held her, when he had comforted her. She knew now that it was the smell of his skin, weathered from years of exposure to the elements and underlined by a hint of sweat.

It was just a kiss on the cheek, nothing more. And yet…

"Amy! Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting." She looked up and found her brother staring down into her face with a frown, while his arms were folded defensively across his chest. "Where have you been? Everyone's been waiting."

"Nowhere!" She cried a little too loudly, her voice squeaky and croaky as she forced her words out of her far too aggressively. "I was just...you know what I'm like. I take ages to get ready, and I was just–"

"What's that?"

She froze as his question cut through her babble of pathetic excuses. "What's what?"

"The thing you're holding," he prodded at the bundle in her arms, the one she had almost forgotten was there. The coat, she should have hidden it, or even thrown it away. It still smelt like Cullen... "Is that the coat I gave you in Haven? I thought you'd lost it."

Oh Maker, he was far too perceptive for her liking.

"No, it was just damaged, so I had it repaired," she told him defensively as she brought it closer to her chest.

“Repaired? Who the hell had the time to–”

"Does it matter?" She blurted out before she could stop herself.

"I was just–"

"Look, I need to get going," she said quickly, turning away from him and marching towards the group of soldiers and horses that had assembled to accompany her home. "As you said, we were meant to have left by now. We don’t have the time to be...messing about."

"Maker's sake, Amelie, I was only making conversation," she heard him sigh as he came up behind her and gestured towards one of the horses.

She knew she had been too harsh, but she couldn’t help herself. 

He could never find out how she had felt about Cullen. He could never find out what was in that letter. 

He could never find out what she had just done. 

"This is yours,” he said in a curnt manner as he strode over to a stocky black horse with white, furry feet. “A nice hardy Ferelden one. The soldiers will bring her home when you board the ship at Denerim."

_Home_.

It was funny how he used that word to describe this place, even when they had spent no more than three days here compared to almost a lifetime in Easton Hall, the beautiful manor house that had been a wedding gift to him from their grandfather all those years ago. And before that, he had all but lived there, tiring of their father’s insistence that he get married.

His family home, where the ones that he left behind carried on with their lives even now in his absence.

But that wasn’t home anymore to him, apparently. This place was. A cold fortress in the middle of a frozen mountain top.

_Home_.

She could never imagine calling a place like this home. It was just so, so not her.

"And you're sure you don't want to come with me?" She asked him eventually, although there was little hope in her words, while her mind dwelled on that word he had used. _Home_. "Just to see everyone, maybe. Then you can come back and do...whatever it is you're doing now."

He didn't say anything to her. All he did was shake his head.

"It's alright, I'll stop asking," she said with a smile even as she retreated in defeat, encouraging him to return her smile in a gesture of good faith. "But you'll write to them, won't you?"

"Yes, I will,"

"And you'll be careful, won't you?"

"Yes, I will," 

"And this Dorian…"

"Oh Maker's sake, Amelie," he sighed heavily with his words strained by his frustration.

"Well just remember your family, OK," she pleaded with him, watching him carefully until he finally found the confidence to return her gaze, and she had him locked in her sights. "It's fine having a bit of...fun...but remember who you've left behind."

He said nothing, nor did he look at her. Instead, he turned to the horse he had gifted to her for the journey, one that was black with a white nose and whitr socks on its feet, which certainly looked hardy enough for the long journey ahead.

"Look after my sister, won't you, Abigail,” she heard him say even as he turned his back on her and addressed the horse in front of him. “And when you get back, I'll get you some nice treats and we can get to know each other better. I might even take you on myself, unless Callie somehow finds her way here."

Their conversation was over, her request remaining unanswered. 

But what could she do? He was older than her, he knew what he was doing. In theory. 

And besides, she wasn’t an entirely innocent party either.

The feelings that she had held about Cullen, the way that the smell of his coat had made her feel, the way that her thoughts lingered on that evening when he had held her in his arms.

She was just as guilty as he was of harbouring bad thoughts, the difference was, she was a free woman. For now, at least. 

“Well I guess I’d better get going,” she said to him, as if to remind him that she was still there. As if to remind him of the entire reason that they were stood out here in the cold, in an hour that was far too early for her liking. “Thank you for lending me your horse.”

“You’re welcome, but don’t make me regret it,” he warned her as he turned to her with a stern glare. “I want her back in one piece, otherwise I’m not having you here to visit again.”

“She’ll be fine!” She insisted, edging herself closer to the large black beast as she took the reins from her brother’s reluctant hands. “Anyway, who says I want to visit again.”

“Of course you do,” he said with a scoff that descended into a smug cackle. “Admit it, you enjoyed yourself here. I can tell.”

She turned away from him as a blush crept onto her cheeks, but he must have noticed, because a stray hand nudged at the top of her arm as she tried in vain to retreat away.

Of course she had enjoyed herself here. She had seen her brother again, met all of these new friends, and Cullen.

The blush on her cheeks only deepened.

“Anyway,” Lionel said, watching her carefully as she fought to escape from her rapidly spiralling thoughts. “I’ll write to you, when we’re a bit more stable. But once we are, you’re welcome to visit whenever you like,” he assured her. “And maybe Claudette could come too?” 

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Amelie scoffed followed by a heavy sigh. “You know what our father is like, he doesn’t let her out of his sight. She’s never even left Ostwick before.”

It was his turn to scoff now. “Meanwhile he couldn’t wait to get rid of the two of us,”

“That’s not…” her protest trailed off not only because of the way her brother rolled his eyes, but because her protest had been in vain, because he had been right. “Anyway, I’ll see what he says.”

“Why even ask? Why not just leave, bring her along?” he said then, and it was Amelie’s turn to adopt a look of disapproval. “She’s 21 now, she’s an adult, she can do what she likes.”

“Because that’s something _you_ would do,” she told him with her eyebrows raised at him. “Claudette does what she’s told, and so do I. Probably because we had to see you face the consequences of _not_ doing what you were told.”

“Well, you’re both boring,” he said with a shrug. “If I never see you again, I’ll presume that our father has locked you both in your rooms for all of eternity.”

“Oh shut up,” she said with a roll of her eyes as she clambered her way onto the back of the horse which, Maker, was far too tall for her liking. “I’ll write to you, let you know what he says, if I can ever bring myself to ask.”

“Alright,” he said with a smile as, for once, he strained to look up into her eyes. “And will you do me a favour?”

“What’s that?”

“Tell the boys I love them,” he said simply, but it caused her heart to stop beating for the briefest of seconds.

An admission, almost, that he didn’t plan to return. A reluctance, perhaps, to commit to coming home at all. A safety net, it seemed, in case he never did.

But then she had seen it herself, the danger this world presented. Had he not almost died at Haven? Had they not all thought that he wasn’t coming home when the snows had buried Haven deep into the mountainside?

But in spite of everything that life had thrown at him, he had returned.

And he always would, she was sure of it.

One day.

She scoffed again, shaking her head in disbelief as a smile crept on to her face. “Tell them yourself.”

Silence dawned. His gaze fell, as he became unable to look her in the eye as he nodded, ever so slightly. She would have missed if she hadn’t been interrogating every move he made.

But it was enough for her. She knew it was useless hoping for anything more.

She took it as a promise, that all would be OK if she left, that he would do all he could to, one day return home, even if it wasn’t today.

That was enough for her. Enough to allow her to turn her back to the dawn and kick her spurs into the sides of her horse. Enough to leave her brother behind even when it hurt her to do so, even when she knew that she had failed in her duty to bring him home. 

Because he had promised, with that small nod of his head, to one day come home.

_One day._

And one day, she may even return here. To her brother, to the friends she had made, to Cullen.

But for now, she would be returning home, to her parents, to Claudette, Jennifer, to Adelaide.

And with every stride of her horse, every step they took down the path away from Skyhold, from the Inquisition, from this strange world, she felt her heart swell with joy at the prospect that she was getting ever closer to home.

_Home_.

But even as the dawn broke in a beautiful, dazzling array of burning oranges and vibrant reds, she saw, in the distance, a dark cloud that marred the far horizon. But she paid it no heed.

In that moment, she was simply too happy to pay attention to such a blight upon the world.

Perhaps she should have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright gang, we made it! I've been going at this for a while basically non-stop (except christmas), so forgive me for taking some time off after this while i recharge my spoons the best i can with everything that's going on. After that, I might throw my upload schedule out the window and just upload when I'm ready. It's a difficult time for us all at the minute and it's pretty taxing on the mind, but I also want to have the option of uploading more often if I can (or less if it's a tough week). 
> 
> (in this vein, it's been a hard week so sorry if this is sloppy i might come back for another edit idk)
> 
> Oh also I did some fluffy art for this one but i haven't finished it yet, i'll post it soon! I post on twitter but i'm looking at using other sharing sites too (i deleted tumblr a while back so not on there sorry)
> 
> Please stay safe and well, and look after yourselves and your loved ones.


	15. Dusk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie has returned home after an extended stay with the Inquisition,ut any hopes of returning to the life she had before are quickly crushed as the aftershocks of the Conclave begin to be felt even as far afield as Ostwick.

So many nights had passed since she had returned home, and she had lost count of how many of those had been filled with dreams of Haven, Skyhold, Lionel, Cullen.

Cullen…

He was in her dreams more often than the others, and when he was, those dreams were so much more pleasant, more peaceful, more alive. It was as if she were really there, by the campfire in the Frostback Mountains, or standing beneath the gaping eye of the Breach. She could feel the heat radiating from the fire within his golden eyes, could smell the earth and sweat and musk that had emanated from the coat he had given to her.

It didn’t smell of him anymore. Sometimes, she would hold it to her nose, and hope beyond hope that that smell had returned.

It hadn’t.

It had faded, as had the memories of her time at Skyhold. Months had passed since she had passed through those towering stone gates and began her journey home, leaving behind her brother, her new found friends, Cullen.

She had tried to forget it all, to move on, leave it all behind her and face the new dawn. 

But she couldn’t.

She never thought she would miss the cold bite of the mountain air, or the hard trek through drifts of snow to a place that may not even exist, or the people who had once seemed strange to her, who she could now class as friends. But she did, more often than she would care to admit.

The problem was that, after Skyhold, and Haven, and everything that had happened to her there, her life in Ostwick seemed dull, boring. She had returned home to the same house, the house that had looked the same ever since she had moved into it almost seven years ago, and she fell back into her old routines so easily that it was as if she had never left.

Every day was the same now, a long, drawn out series of small tasks that strung together into one, long routine. This day would be no different, she knew that already, and she’d only just eaten her breakfast.

The dawn that rose above her Ostwick home on that morning should have been dazzling to behold, a golden sun rising after a long, dark night to shine upon the never ending stretch of lush green fields that separated her home from the rest of the world.

But it wasn't. 

Even as the sun sat proudly in the sky above, it was as if it wasn't there, as if the world had instead settled into a perpetual state of dusk. 

No night had followed the setting of the sun, the ending of her time with the Inquisition, and no dawn had risen to welcome her return home. It was as if her entire life now existed in a limbo in between two states, where a part of her had been left behind in that strange world she had left behind, while the other continued on with her previous life, the life of a noblewoman.

And in that limbo, she sat, and she waited for something to happen, a storm to brew upon the horizon.

It always did, eventually.

Amelie sighed, just as she had done every morning since she had arrived. But the world didn't seem any better for it. It never did.

This dark and dreary morning was a far cry from the one that she had been blessed with when she had first arrived home. After so long in the company of the Inquisition, she thought it was the most wonderful sight in the world to be greeted by a brilliant sun over the skies of Ostwick. It had warmed her skin, and it had warmed her heart, which threatened to burst as Adelaide ran down the stairs to meet her, clutching at her legs with her small arms and even smaller fingers.

And Claudette. Maker, Claudette. She had been more than overjoyed to see her younger sister, who was always so sweet and so kind, and so happy. She was never troubled, perhaps the only one of them who was ever at peace.

It was always a blessing to see Claudette.

She had found herself smiling too when her mother came to greet her, even when she had commented on the untidiness of her windswept hair. Because that didn’t matter anymore, not when it had been so long since she had seen one another.

But it didn't take long for her smile to fade. 

In moments of peace, a storm was always ready to brew upon that far horizon.

It just came to her quicker than she had thought.

Her father had walked into the hallway as she had entered, and had done that dreaded gesture that she had seen him to do her brother so many times before: a quick flick of the wrist as he pointed towards the stairs, towards his study.

She could remember her father's words even now, over a month after she had first returned home.

_"Stupid girl,"_ he had spat at her, with fury in his eyes and poison in his tone. _"You had one job: bring him home. So why have you come back empty handed?"_

She couldn't tell him why, even though she desperately wanted to. She wanted him to understand, she wanted him to stop shouting and stop blaming and stop with his angry tirade. But she couldn’t. She couldn't reveal her brother’s secrets, she couldn't tell him what Lionel had told her.

That was why she had avoided seeing her father ever since, but he wasn’t the only one that she had been hiding from.

Every Tuesday, for only the Maker knew how long, she had met with Jennifer for afternoon tea. Every Tuesday, they would meet at Amelie’s home or, rarely, at her own. It was a routine, a ritual. They would talk, and gossip, and moan about the things that troubled them.

Or, they had done, until the Conclave and shaken up their world.

The letters still arrived. Every weekend, Jennifer would ask if they were meeting for tea. Amelie was always busy. There was always an excuse.

This week, she had simply ignored the letter. She just couldn't face it anymore. The lies, the secrets.

It was exhausting.

Maker, why did she have to bear the burden of his secrets? Why could he not have just come home?

Perhaps that was one of the reasons why she couldn’t settle here, why she couldn’t for the life of her feel as warm and happy as she had done on her first week back in Ostwick. There were untruths that circulated around her mind and preyed upon her soul, born from those weeks that she had spent in the company of the Inquisition. There was her brother, then there was herself, her feelings for Cullen that she still couldn’t quite understand.

Then there was the letter, sealed with a kiss upon the cheek that should have been innocent, but in her mind, it was entirely the opposite. 

Those secrets burned in the depths of her heart, but she held onto hope that, with every day that passed, they may begin to burn ever so slightly less.

One day, she may even forget. One day, the sun may rise over Ostwick once again.

A sense of normality may overcome her once again, a boredom deprived from familiarity. 

It would be dull, as was her life before the Conclave had fell. But it would be safe, at least.

And she would be happy to live in boredom if it gave her a moment of peace.

"Can I go out and play now?" Adelaide, impatient as ever, mercifully interrupted Amelie's train of thought and reminded her once again of that familiarity that she craved.

She looked over at her, suddenly aware of her presence at the table beside her.

Once again, she hadn't finished her breakfast. Once again, she had picked apart the bread like a bird who has pecked away at a scattering of seeds. 

Once again, Amelie sighed.

She had been so happy to see her when she returned all those weeks ago, but they had quickly fallen back into their routine of annoying each other at every possible opportunity. 

Familiarity. Boredom. Normality.

Wasn’t that what she had just been craving, if only to cure the unease that was in her heart? But did she really _want_ that? Did she _want_ to go back to normal?

As much as it hurt her to admit it, there was a part of her that regretted coming home. On mornings like this, she thought back to the world she had left behind, the one that her brother had absorbed himself in so easily that it was almost as if he had never lived another life. 

She had been happy there, she hated to admit it. Her clothes had been comfortable, even if they did cling to her curves in less than flattering ways. Her days had been free, when they hadn't been filled with worry. Her life had been simpler, if not for the lingering guilt at leaving her family behind.

And her brother was there, that counted for something. He was annoying, and she could get impatient with him, but they had been so close once, a long time ago.

But she had left him there, just as she had left behind all of those friends she had made.

Just as she had left Cullen, with nothing but a scribble on a piece of parchment, and a kiss on the cheek that lingered in her sweetest dreams.

And she had traded all of that, her happiness, her freedom, her own little adventure in a far away land, to spend every morning arguing about toast.

"No, you haven't eaten your breakfast," she told her for what must have been the hundredth time since she had returned. "I'm not telling you again–"

"Is Aunt Jennifer coming over today?" Adelaide's question took her by surprise, so much so that she lost her train of thought completely and abandoned her lecture. 

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it's Tuesday," she said as if the answer was painfully obvious. But then that would be because it was. Amelie knew exactly why she had asked that question. "She always came over on Tuesday's, before you went away. When is she coming over again?"

Never, if she could help it. "No, she isn't coming today."

"Why not?" She asked her in spite of her deflection. "They haven't been in here in _ages_, and I miss playing with–"

A gentle clear of the throat interrupted Adelaide's whining, and brought Amelie a moment of respite. 

"Lady Amelie. Some letters have arrived for you," Ashlen scurried over and passed a bundle of letters into her hand.

"Thank you," she told her with a polite smile. Thank the Maker for Ashlen...

Her eyes turned down to those letters in her hand. The seal was Orlesian, but it wasn't her grandmother's writing. That meant it was likely to be something that Amelie wasn't too keen to read.

She put it to the side. Perhaps the other one would be more interesting…

"So when is Aunt Jen–"

Amelie dropped the letters on the table in front of her, a sigh escaping from her pursed lips as she did so.

She didn't want to do this today. She just...didn't. 

She didn't want to have to explain why she was too cowardly to talk to her aunt, and where would she even begin?

She'd do anything to avoid that conversation.

_Anything..._

"Adelaide, why don't you go outside and play now."

Adelaide’s grey eyes widened, and her mouth even more so. "But...I haven't finished my breakfast."

Their usual debate had been forgotten, pushed to the side. There were bigger concerns on Amelie’s mind today. 

And without any fuel, Adelaide's fire had dwindled, for perhaps the first time in her very short life.

Maybe that was the answer, to deprive the fire of its fuel? Maybe that would save them from a lot of this grief, would save her from losing her patience every morning?

She knew that her mother would disapprove, but she wasn't here.

Did this count as a victory? She’d like to think so, but it seemed more to her as if it was admitting defeat?

But there were more pressing matters on her mind.

"Nevermind that,” she said quickly, before she could change her mind. “Go and find Helena and have some time in the garden before you begin your lessons." 

"Oh," she was, for perhaps the first time in her short life, stunned into silence. She wouldn't take her eyes off of Amelie as she slid off her chair, as if she was waiting for her to go back on her word, or perhaps even scold her. But once it was clear that she wasn’t going to do so, she all but ran towards the door into the hall.

It was possibly the first time she had ever done what she was told without arguing.

But then, not long after a small hand appeared on the doorframe, and after it, a small round face covered in a splattering of freckles. 

Nevermind, perhaps Amelie had spoken too soon. 

"Do you want to come and play as well?"

She looked up at her with hope in her eyes, and a pang of guilt shot through Amelie's chest and almost brought her to her knees.

But it didn't, she didn't give in. After all, she had so much work to do today. The estate would not run itself, and leaving it for months to chase her brother through the Frostback Mountains had left her with quite the backlog. 

"Maybe later," she told her with an apologetic smile, but to her surprise, no fuss was made. Adelaide didn't look surprised, or disappointed. She simply shrugged and ran off into the hall; she was used to this now, it didn't bother her anymore.

That hurt in a way that Amelie could not articulate.

Was she really that distant? Maker...was she turning into her own mother?

But...she couldn't have gone with her...not today. There was too much too much to do, and too much on her mind.

Haven, Skyhold, Lionel, Cullen, all of them had been on her mind practically every day since she had returned home. So too had that glimpse of a life that wasn't her own, one where she was just a little bit more...free.

But Adelaide had brought another concern to the forefront of her mind.

Jennifer.

Andraste forgive her for avoiding the woman who was a sister to her in all but name. And Maker, was it really so obvious that even a five year old could become suspicious?

Amelie's head fell into her hands, while her fingers combed through her loose strands of long red hair, grateful that she had chosen to leave it loose when she had so many stresses to work through her locks with anxious hands. 

It was rare for her to have her hair braided now; Ashlen had braided it only a few times since she had returned home before she had told her not to bother. She was used to it now, anyway, and while she hid herself in her hands, her hair veiled her from the horrors of the world outside, hid her from the glares of those she had disappointed. 

Her family. Her father. Jennifer. 

She had let them down, all of them. But not only that, she had kept secrets from them all.

Her brother's confession, his guilt, his shame, and then her own.

Dorian. Cullen. All of them, who lived in a world so different from her own, one so unfamiliar to her.

But now that she had escaped from it, it was becoming more clear to her everyday that this world had begun to seem unfamiliar to her too.

The gentle life of Ferdinand Trevelyan's daughter had been shaken by the coming of the Breach, and it was easier for her to try and forget what had happened there, to try and claw back that life she had had before.

Her brother. Dorian. Cullen.

Maker...Cullen. What had she been thinking, writing that letter to him? What had she been thinking, when she had kissed him on the cheek to say goodbye?

What had she been thinking, falling for a man such as him, as if she was a young girl swooning over a noble prince in a storybook?

It was easier not to question what had happened. It was easier to try to forget. It was easier to look ahead, to try to move forward.

Try, if she could, to return to the life she had had before. 

_Forget_. 

She sighed, picking up the letters that she had dropped on the table. _Move forward_. She studied the flowing, delicate Orlesian script on the first letter, wondering who could have written to her.

What if...?

_Don't question it_. 

But...what if...? 

_Dont_. 

But...what if...it was a reply from Cullen?

She almost laughed out loud. The seal had been Orlesian, as had the small amount of words she had bothered to read. A Fereldan man would never write in Orlesian even if he _had_ endeavoured to learn it. 

But what if…? 

_No._ She mustn't think of it. She mustn't think of _him_.

She mustn't think of his warm brown eyes and his crooked smile marred by a jagged scar, or the smell of his leather coat and the feel of his cold armour against her skin as he held her on a cold, dark night in the Frostback Mountains.

She mustn't think of it. _No._ She mustn't.

Closing her eyes, she slid a finger beneath the seal and tore it away from the parchment. 

The letter was open, but her eyes remained closed. She was frightened to open them, even a peep.

Because what if…?

"Mummy! Mummy! Are you sleeping?" A shrill voice called out to her from beyond the darkness, accompanied by a determined tug at her arm forced her to open her eyes. 

"No! I was just…" She asked her with a sigh of exasperation. But her interruption wasn't entirely unwanted. Thanks to her, she had achieved exactly what she had wanted to achieve.

She had forgotten what it was she had been thinking about. 

"What is it?"

"I thought you said that Aunt Jennifer _wasn't_ coming over today?" Adelaide looked confused with her brows furrowed above her narrowed grey eyes and her lips pursed in an almost frown.

Jennifer? Why was she asking so many questions about Jennifer?

Amelie's smile quickly faded. "What do you mean?"

"Well you said she wasn't coming," she said with her expression becoming even more determined. "But she's here, I just saw her out on the driveway."

"Don't be silly, Adelaide," she tutted with a roll of her eyes. 

She didn't have time for this. She didn't have the _strength_ for this. 

Jennifer_ couldn't_ be here. Adelaide was just trying to wind her up.

"I'm not being silly!" Adelaide objected with such passion that it caused a doubt to swell in her heart. 

Oh no. Was she…?

Amelie bolted out of her chair and rushed towards the window that looked out onto the driveway to her home.

It looked just the same as it always had with green fields stretching out for hundreds of miles intersected long by a gravel pathway that led from her door, to a gate that lay well over the horizon. 

But parked on that driveway was a carriage, and a woman was marching away from it with as much determination in her gait as ever, her chin raised to the sky and her shoulders squared.

Jennifer danced wherever she went, a leftover from her days as a student of Orlesian ballet. It made her easy to recognise even from a distance. That was how Amelie knew that it was her as she watched her glide towards the door of her home, so easy, that she couldn't have mistaken her for anyone else.

Maker, no…

"See, I _told_ you," Adelaide said with a huff, and Amelie turned to find her standing with a pout on her lips and her arms folded across her chest.

"Yes...you did," she said quietly, humbled and ashamed by the doubt she had held in her daughter's gaze. "Thank you."

Adelaide looked startled by her expression of gratitude, but her lips soon evolved into a smile, before her entire face beamed with delight as she flounced off into the hallway with a newfound pride in her step.

She had every right to be proud. Without her warning, Amelie would have been completely unprepared for what she was about to face.

And she needed all the preparation she could get.

With the few seconds she had left, her brain scrambled together some degree of composure, pushing everything she had seen in Haven to the back of her mind. Lionel, Dorian, Cullen.

Oh, Cullen…

There was a knock on the door, and then a creak as it opened.

Oh Maker…

She had to forget, and she had to do it quickly. Forget what she had seen at Haven, forget what she had been told.

Forget that there were any secrets to tell.

She took a deep breath, and then another. Then she followed her daughter into the hall, as composed as she could possibly hope to be.

But all sense of composure was lost as soon as she stepped out into that hallway, and saw Jennifer’s sweet smiling face surrounded by Amelie’s nephews.

It all fell apart within seconds.

Ever since Haven, she had struggled to maintain that mask of composure which had so often shielded her from harm. Now, she could have used that mask.

She could blame Cullen for that, for allowing her grief to overflow. She could blame her brother too, for causing her to grieve in the first place.

And possibly herself, for holding it in for so long that she had become fragile to the touch, like a thin piece of porcelain that, as soon as it displayed its first crack, shattered into a thousand pieces as soon as someone dared to look at it.

Oh Maker...

"Amy! It's been so long since I last saw you!" Jennifer said as her brown eyes fell upon Amelie and her lips formed a sweet, gentle smile. But her expression soon turned accusatory. "Have you not been receiving my letters?"

"Sorry, um, yes, it's just...I've been so busy," Amelie told her, although her lie was far from convincing. 

She had never been very good at lying.

"Yes, apparently so," she said with a laugh that was far from genuine. "Well, we were just passing through and I thought we could drop by. We're heading to the city today because _someone_ keeps growing out of his clothes."

She tore her gaze towards Antony, who was forced to endure his mother's stare while a hint of red rose to his cheeks, and he squirmed uncomfortably beneath her gaze just as she herself had been doing.

But Amelie squirmed no more. Instead, her brain had begun to work tirelessly.

Passing through? Easton Hall lay in the countryside south of the city, while Amelie lived near the base Vimmarck mountains to the north. 

It was one of those places that people simply didn't ‘pass through’ – perhaps that was why she liked it, and why it had sometimes felt like a prison.

"So anyway, seeing as it's a Tuesday and we were heading out anyway, I thought we could drop by for some tea," Jennifer turned back to her with that same sweet smile, but now it seemed far less welcoming than it had done before. "Sorry, Amy, I hope you don't mind me just dropping in like this. But I have missed our little weekly get togethers."

The guilt began to overcome her once again.

How could she have thought so badly of her sister? Especially after she had so cruelly spurned her since her return home.

Amelie sighed, and a smile crept onto her lips without her even knowing. "Of course, that would be lovely."

Everyone seemed delighted, and a part of her, the part that had never left for Haven, that had never left her parents home when the Breach had appeared in the sky, was too. But the part of her that had been forged in the fires of Haven swelled with dread as she followed Jennifer and her nephews out into the garden and ordered some tea.

And that part of her was just a little bit angry that her sister-in-law had waltzed into her home with no invite, no warning, and had put her in such an awkward position. 

That was the part of her that wanted to run from it all, the part that had tried so hard to forget everything that had happened, to move forward, to return to the life she had lived before, as if Haven and the Breach and the Inquisition had never happened. 

As if she had never heard her brother's confession. As if nothing had happened.

But she could never have hoped to run forever, a small part of her had recognised that, had known it would never work. She had just tried to suppress it, just as she had tried to push aside, to forget, so many other things since she had returned home.

Haven, Skyhold, Lionel, Cullen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!! Hope you're all staying safe and well. I'm hoping to upload every other week for the time being because life is weird at the minute, so next chapter will be week after next!
> 
> Take care everyone <3


	16. Tea With a Side of Strawberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the Conclave, Amelie would meet with her sister-in-law for tea in the garden on every Tuesday afternoon. But now, the thought of doing so makes Amelie feel sick with nerves.  
Except Jennifer has turned up at her door without warning, and now Amelie must entertain her for tea and sandwiches with the memories of what happened at Haven burning in her mind.

It was odd for Amelie to have not seen Jennifer for so long. It had been a long standing tradition for Jennifer to come over to her home on a Tuesday. They would share lunch together, or drink tea in the garden. Sometimes her brother would come too, but not very often. He was normally busy doing...well, she wasn’t quite sure. Probably out with his horse.

It was something she had always enjoyed, a chance to talk the woman who was a true sister to her in all but name.

But not on this particular Tuesday afternoon.

She sat opposite her, on a chair that flanked a small, round, iron table that sat in the corner of her garden between two bushes that had just come into flower, but she couldn’t meet her gaze.

She fidgeted. She cleared her throat. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind an ear.

She couldn’t look at her. Not on this particular afternoon.

She was embarrassed at how rude she had been. She was ashamed that she had hidden herself so from her own sister-in-law. But there was also a part of her that was tense, frustrated, annoyed.

She hadn't invited her here. She didn't want to see her. She didn't want to sit in her garden and drink tea and pretend that nothing was wrong.

Because it was. 

She thought of the tavern in Haven, and the jokes that had been made at her brother’s expense. She thought of the way he had looked at his new friend, the way they talked so easily to one another that she wondered how it could be possible that he was little more than a stranger.

Then she thought of the camp in the mountains, the words he had spoken to her.

_"It's just a bit of fun, that's all."_

An assurance – or perhaps even a promise – that nothing would happen, that it was little more than a silly, childish fancy.

It was the same way that she felt about Cullen, wasn’t it? A silly fantasy that would never come to anything now that she had left him with little more than a letter that had received no reply.

"I've missed this so much, haven't you?" Jennifer asked her with a polite smile thrown in her direction, as a collection of servants delivered their tea and sandwiches to the small table that sat in the corner of Amelie's garden. 

It was almost always Amelie's garden that they met in, not her own. After all, she lived here alone now, no one could disturb them here.

Or perhaps Jennifer just wanted to get away... 

_"You know how it is, you were married…"_

No, she had too much to worry about without wondering what went on behind closed doors.

She turned to her, and returned the smile she gave her. "Yes, I have! It’s so lovely to see you again.”

It wasn't entirely a lie. She loved Jennifer like a sister. They were the same age, they had been married at similar ages, had had their children not too far apart from one another. And she had always been so kind to her, the big sister she had never had. 

It was the first thing that she had said that wasn't tinged with a lingering guilt.

"It must be nice to have everything back to normal again after your travels," she said with a smile, while Amelie's heart filled with dread.

It hadn't taken long for their conversation to turn to her trip to Haven. 

Perhaps her intrusion _was_ down to genuine concern; it wouldn't be the first time she had done such a thing. But Jennifer's visit today, her excuses, her immediate question about Haven. It all seemed a little bit too...convenient.

Or perhaps she was overthinking it, letting her worry get to her.

She shook her head and cleared her throat. 

"Yes, it's lovely to be home again, and to see you again, of course," she managed to say as she conjured a smile that felt awkward and strained. “I’m sorry we couldn’t meet earlier…”

"It's alright, Amy. I can understand," she told her, throwing her a quick smile as she reached out to take a sandwich from the tower of delicate, floral patterned, plates. Relief began to wash over her. Maker, she was always so kind... "But you must tell me all about Haven, I am very interested in hearing what you got up to."

She scoffed as she brought her now filled tea cup to her lips. ”Well, I'm sure Lionel has told you all about it.”

"He hasn’t," she said sharply with a hint of bitterness in her tone, as her posture became rigid and unmoving. "He's written, although I imagine that was on _your_ insistence, rather than of his own volition. Mostly he just asks about the children. He doesn’t ask about me very much.”

"Oh, right," she said as she averted her eyes away from her own. Jennifer could be...intense, when something bothered her. But he had written, at least. Thank the Maker… "So...how is he?”

"I don't know, you tell me," Jennifer’s gaze remained intense, her posture rigid, her once soft brown eyes hardening by the second as her face became smothered by a dark shadow. Her delicately shaped eyebrows were knotted at the bridge of her nose, and her pointed face looked even more stern than usual.

Did she know? Did she know that something was wrong?

Was that why she had invited herself here?

But nothing was wrong. Nothing had happened. 

It was nothing, that was what he had told her.

Nothing.

_"It's just a bit of fun, that's all."_

Nothing. 

Amelie did her best impression of an expression of bemusement. "I...I'm sorry?"

"Well, you've seen him. I was just hoping that _you_ could tell _me_ how he was," she said, while her once stern face quickly dissolved with a shake of her head, and an air of indifference passed over her face so smoothly that it almost could have been a part of a carefully rehearsed routine.

"Oh, right..." She said as she relaxed somewhat. Genuine concern, perhaps. But Amelie was an expert in the art of crafting the perfect expression, she could tell when one had been engineered. 

And Jennifer had never really been one for hiding how she felt. She wore her emotions proudly upon her face, as if they were an intricately crafted gold mask worn by an Orlesian courtier, whether she intended to or not.

In spite of her attempt to hide it, Amelie could see that she was tense, on edge, frustrated, even.

But what could she do? He'd promised he would write to her, but he'd never promised he would write competently, or that he would even try to explain what was going on in the ongoing melodrama that was his new life.

She could pretend that she believed her, that she thought that there was only concern that stemmed from Jennifer’s visit, that this was nothing more than a meeting between two sisters, just as they had done so many times before.

That there was nothing that she didn’t know, nothing out of the ordinary.

There wasn’t. It was nothing. 

_"It's just a bit of fun, that's all."_

Nothing.

"Yeah, he's fine. Actually, he's enjoying it there, and everyone thinks very highly of him,” she said as she too engineered an expression of indifference. But then something began to brew deep inside of her. A memory. “Well..."

She thought of the one who hadn't, the one who had expressed such disdain but had then run into the darkness to find him again.

Cullen. She thought of Cullen.

Just as she had done almost every day since she had come home.

She wondered what he was doing, how he was, whether he had read her letter, what he had thought–

"So nothing else?" Jennifer probed her, interrupting her rapidly spiraling thoughts with a sharp question and an even sharper stare. "He's just...fine…?"

"Yeah...I guess so?" She said with her words tinged with uncertainty. 

Why would she question her in such a way? _Did_ she know something? 

Amelie's stomach hadn't stopped churning since Jennifer had arrived, and all she wanted to do was eat the food that was in front of her. But she felt too nauseous to even try.

Instead she watched as, ahead of her, someone had broken off from the group of three children who played in the distance. 

It was Francis of course, the youngest of her two nephews.

"What are you doing here, sweetheart?" Jennifer asked him as he approached."Why aren't you playing with your brother and Adelaide?"

"I don't want to anymore. I want to be with you," Amelie had never been so pleased to see that sweet face that looked so much like her brother’s even at such a young age. He had been her escape, at least for now.

But Jennifer looked far less pleased.

“Alright,” she sighed as she brought him up onto her lap with a frown on her face. “Honestly, Amy, it’s been a nightmare since Lionel left.”

“I suppose they must miss him,” Amelie said with a pitiful look towards her nephew, who looked very pleased with himself as he sat in Jennifer’s arms. 

“You can say that again,” she sighed again, although this time, it was sharper, with an air of frustration. “It’s his own fault. I _told_ him that all the fussing over them would make them clingy! But did he listen? Of course not! He lets them sleep with him, Amy...”

“But it’s only natural for them to miss him, Jen,” Amelie said somewhat defensively. Not that she necessarily disagreed – she would never even attempt to share a bed with Adelaide – but because, well, he was her brother. That was just what she did.

“Oh of course!” She said quickly, mirroring Amelie's defensive stance. “But look at Adelaide, she was so well behaved on those days she stayed with me…"

Amelie almost choked on the tea she was drinking.

_Adelaide? _Well behaved?Were they even talking about the same child?

"...she didn't make much of a fuss. I dropped her off at your parents and she was so happy..."

No. This couldn't be the same child. 

But then again, Jennifer was a lot more firm than herself, with her scolding raising even the hairs on the back of Amelie’s neck, let alone Adelaide.

"...she didn't seem at all bothered by you not being there. But my two? Well, they can't be separated for more than a second and now that their Father has gone, they're even worse…"

Amelie could have dropped the tea cup she was holding, as a sudden sharp pain jolted through her heart and tore the breath from her lungs.

Adelaide...she hadn’t even cared that she was gone...

That was one of the most painful things that Amelie could have heard, because she knew that it was true. She knew that Adelaide would have been happier even under Jennifer’s stern countenance.

Because Amelie was distant, and cold. Just like her mother. 

Jennifer may have been firm sometimes, but there was no doubt that she cared for her children. And Lionel? Well, he looked at his children as if they were the world, that was something she had always respected. Amelie, however, looked at her as if she was an annoyance, a naughty child who picked at her food and got dirt on her dresses, who couldn't sit still when they sat and drank tea with her parents.

But she had missed her when she was at Haven, her desire to return home driven by the thought that her daughter was alone in the world, waiting for her to come home.

Except she hadn't been. She hadn't even cared.

She had been happy without her, _happier_ even, by the sounds of it.

“Oh, she missed you, of course! She told me as such,” Jennifer said with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. She must have noticed the haunted expression on Amelie’s face, or paid heed to the reflective silence that she had slipped into. But it was too late, the damage had been done. “It’s just...well I just mean...she’s such a strong young girl.”

Her heart ached, her body had numbed, her mind had begun to drown at tides of pain washed over her.

But she still managed to smile. “Yes, yes she is.”

It was a tough world, the one in which they lived. She was right, you had to be strong. That had always been the excuse that her parents had used, anyway.

Be strong. Be tough. Shield yourself behind a layer of composure, elegance, grace, that could never betray any emotion, any feeling, any moment of grief or happiness or fear that surfaced from the depths of the heart.

That was what she had always been told. That was her mantra.

But, Maker, at what cost? 

Adelaide. It had cost her Adelaide.

And in a land far from her own, it had cost her a handsome man with a heart that was as golden as his eyes.

Jennifer cleared her throat, and hid herself behind the brim of her tea cup. “Anyway, they get it from Lionel, I’m sure they do...”

Jennifer continued on, but Amelie was struggling to pay attention. 

If she had only been less composed, if she had only allowed herself to be weak just as she had done in that moment in the mountains when her tears had been allowed to fall into the snow beneath her feet, perhaps she would not have lost it all.

Perhaps Adelaide would like her. Perhaps she would have left Cullen with more than just a note hastily scribbled beneath the light of the moons.

“...The thing is with him, is I have _no_ idea what’s ever going on in his mind. He is _so_ closed off…”

She was vacant, lost in her thoughts, as she stared past Jennifer and watched her daughter playing with her cousin at the far end of the garden. She was happy when she played, happier than she ever was when she was inside with Amelie. It was a beautiful sight, seeing that smile upon her face as the wind carried her halo of frizzy ginger hair and forced it to perform an overcomplicated dance.

She wondered what they could be playing, but it was far to tell from here.

It involved some very large sticks being moved about in ways that could potentially be dangerous.

“...and I wouldn’t even know if anything _had_ happened, I mean…”

Perhaps she should intervene. But what was the point? Adelaide wouldn’t listen to her anyway, all she would do is curse her for getting in the way of her fun.

And she already thought so little of her...

“Amelie?” Jennifer called out to her with a tone that was almost scolding. “Did you hear what I just said?”

Amelie turned back towards her sharply, her cheeks beginning to burn as her lack of attention revealed itself. “Oh no...I’m sorry…”

“I _said_,” she said with a hint of impatience that only made Amelie’s cheeks burn even more. “That everything seems...I don’t know...something just doesn’t feel right to me.” 

“Oh…” she tore her eyes away from the children. Maker, this was getting very confusing. Amelie had no idea if Jennifer knew something or didn’t. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know...” Jennifer said with a heavy sigh as she took a moment to sip at her tea. It must be getting cold by now, but she’d barely touched it, instead choosing to cradle it with her long, spindly fingers. “Something hasn’t felt right since the Conclave. I thought he was dead, and then he wasn’t, but I can’t help but think...”

She paused then, long enough for Amelie to become concerned that she would have to say something, something reassuring, or comforting. 

“I just don’t know what’s going on!” She burst out suddenly, bringing the cup of tea back down onto the saucer in front of her with such force that Amelie was forced to make a mental note to have her cup and saucer checked for any cracks or marks. “He hardly tells me anything, and what he _does_ tell me doesn’t make any sense! It’s all so weird! Things about the Fade and demons and...and...something about the Empress? A ball? I don’t know, I don’t get it! And I struggle to maintain interest, if I’m going to be honest!”

She scoffed then, shaking her head before taking a second glance at the teacup she had abandoned. In one quick move, she rose it back to her lips and drained the contents.

The fire in her eyes vanished within seconds. She softened slightly, her shoulders rounding as she slumped only a fraction into the back of her chair.

She turned back to Amelie, who by this point, had begun to lose track of the conversation. 

“You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

The world came to a standstill around her.

Would she?

If something was wrong, would she tell her?

Nothing _was_ wrong, of course. She had told herself that over and over again ever since Jennifer had showed up at her doorstep out of the blue. 

_"It's just a bit of fun, that's all."_

That was the crutch that she had been leaning on, the assurance that had kept her strong even in the face of Jennifer’s interrogative stare.

It was nothing. Nothing was wrong.

But if it _was_...if he had gone further with his affections, then would she tell her?

She didn’t know the answer to that. She hoped she would never have to.

But she couldn’t make that promise, not when she didn’t even know the answer to that question herself.

“He’s fine, Jennifer,” she told her with a smile, even though she knew that that was not the answer that she had been looking for, because she couldn’t bring herself to lie to her, either. “I’ll write to him this afternoon and get him to write to you again. You know how he is, he’s so–”

“Forgetful? Careless? Easily distracted? Yes, I know that all too well,” she grumbled as she rolled her eyes and reached over to take another sandwich from the three-tiered stand in the middle of the table. Her words were harsh, with a bitter sting to her tone that raised the hairs on the back of Amelie’s neck.

_"You know how it is, you were married…"_

And yet, she would never have said those things about Richard. Even when– 

“Mummy, Adelaide hit me with a stick!”

Suddenly, all thoughts of Jennifer and Lionel’s increasingly concerning marriage vanished from her mind.

_Oh no…_

The colour drained from Amelie's face as she lifted her gaze to find Jennifer scowling at her, next to a sullen looking Antony who looked cautiously between the pair of them, as he always did. 

He was confident, just like his father. But also quiet, and reflective when he chose to be, also like his father. Although she had noticed that he chose to be so far more often than Lionel did.

Meanwhile, Adelaide hovered in the background, her gaze firmly fixated upon the floor beneath her pink shoes that, by the looks of it, were covered in mud. Guilt was etched on to her face as she shuffled from one foot, to the next, a far cry from the composure that Antony wore so easily.

Maker’s sake...

“Adelaide!?" Amelie was mortified, embarrassed, ashamed_. "She was so well behaved"_ Jennifer had said. Maker...was she doing something wrong here? “You can’t just hit people with sticks! Say sorry to him.”

“_Sorry_,” she mumbled with a bite to her tone that Amelie would have scolded her for, had Jennifer not rose to her feet at that second. 

“Well, we need to get going anyway before the tailor shuts,” Jennifer said with a strained smile offered in Amelie's direction; a sign that all was forgiven – or she hoped so at least. “Thank you for the tea, Amy. It was good to speak to you again.”

“You’re very welcome. We’ll have to do this again,” she said with a polite smile, even as the thought of such a thing made her feel a little bit nauseous. 

Perhaps she could be busy again next Tuesday...

“Yes, we shall,” she smiled back at her – a smile that she hoped was genuine. “I’ll see you soon.”

Once they had left, Amelie breathed a heavy sigh of relief, forgetting for a moment that Adelaide was still there, waiting for the punishment for her misbehaviour. 

But how could she forget when this was such an integral part to their daily routine?

"So why did you hit your cousin with a stick?" She asked her with an impatient sigh. She was not in the mood for this today.

"Because I wanted to be the captain of the pirate ship and he said I couldn't because he's older and a boy, so–"

Adelaide fidgeted as she spoke, her hands clasping at the skirts of her pretty lavender dress as she continued to shift between each foot while her gaze wondered in every direction except Amelie’s.

She expected a scolding, Amelie knew.

And she should have given her one, she knew.

But a laugh escaped from Amelie's lips before she could ever have hoped to stop it, which laid to rest any hope of her being able to discipline her.

Adelaide froze, her grey eyes wide as she looked up at her mother in disbelief.

But she couldn’t help it. A memory had surged to the front of her mind seemingly from nowhere of a garden from long ago. A break in between their lessons, just before the one that she had been forbidden from joining, where her and her brother had shared a brief moment of respite beneath a burning sun.

“Sorry,” she said then as she swallowed back her giggle and fought to compose herself. But it was no use. The moment had passed, Adelaide’s shame had turned to confusion, her nervous fidgeting had seized.

All sense of authority that Amelie could have claimed had vanished as soon as that laughter had passed her lips.

How could she, anyway, when she had once done almost exactly the same?

"It's just…" 

Should she tell her? Probably not...it would only encourage her.

But then…

_"She didn't seem at all bothered by you not being there."_

This was a chance that she had never had before, a chance to connect, or perhaps even bond. For once in their life, they had something in common that went beyond the flaming red hair and the freckles upon their face.

When would she ever get this chance again?

And after everything that she had gone through on that day, she just could not be bothered.

So she took the easy way out.

“I did the same thing to your uncle once,” she told her then, and she had the pleasure of watching Adelaide’s confusion turned to wonder, her grey eyes growing larger and glowing brighter.

“Really?” There was astonishment in her voice, mixed with a hint of bewilderment, and a trace of nervousness that remained, as if she was expecting her mother to change her tune.

Not today. 

“Yeah!” She told her then, feeding off of the rush of validation that Adelaide’s wonder was giving her. “Well, I didn’t hit him with a stick. I pushed him over into the mud and then he cried.”

Adelaide laughed then, and it was a laugh as sweet as birdsong on a spring morning.

How long had it been since she had heard her laugh? How long had it been since she had made her so happy?

Too long.

“We had all of our lessons together, except for one: sword fighting,” she couldn’t stop herself, buoyed by the joy in her daughters eyes and pushed by Jennifer’s words. She would show her – no, show _herself_ – that Adelaide could care for her. "So I asked him why I wasn’t allowed to come, and he told me it was because our father didn’t want girls learning things like that. So I got annoyed and I pushed him over.”

“That’s funny,” Adelaide admitted then with a beaming smile, but it soon faded. “But...why do boys keep saying that?”

Amelie froze for a second, her eyes drifting away towards the remnants of her afternoon tea.

That was a long story. Where would she even begin? 

“Because they’re stupid,” she said with a sigh, and she was delighted to hear Adelaide laugh again. 

She should have scolded her, she knew. She shouldn’t encourage this wild behaviour, that’s what her mother would say. Jennifer would have been furious if she had known what had happened once she had left.

But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn’t dampen that joy in her eyes, a joy that Amelie hadn’t seen for so many years.

Besides, how could she have lectured her, when she had been just as unruly as herself?

It was easy to forget how she had been when she was a child. She had been nervous and shy, and often leant upon her brother’s confidence when the nerves got the better of her. But she could be feisty, stubborn, had an argumentative streak that being sent away to school had beaten out of her.

Perhaps she had more in common with Adelaide than she thought.

But she wasn’t that young girl anymore. Now, she was meak, mild, a true lady. But part of her missed those times in her childhood when she could laugh and play and push her brother in the mud when he was being annoying.

One day, Adelaide would have to grow up too. But...maybe she could have fun for just a little bit longer.

And anything to make her as happy in Amelie's presence as she was now. Anything to bring that smile back to her face. 

Anything to bring them closer.

Her stomach growled, and her eyes turned towards the tier of plates that sat in the centre of the table. She hadn’t touched the food, she had been too nervous, too tense.

That gave her an idea.

“Adelaide, why don’t we go inside and have some cake?” She asked her then, and the joy in Adelaide’s face only grew, as did Amelie’s. “Maybe we can see if we have any strawberries as well.”

“Oh yes! Strawberries are my favourite!" She cried with glee as she fell into step beside Amelie who led her out of the garden and away from the chill of the wind. 

Her fingers found hers. They were so small, and so soft, and just a little bit cold to the touch.

It dawned on her then that she had forgotten how it had felt to feel those fingers clasp around her own.

“Lady Amelie,” Ashlen called to her as they walked into the threshold of her home. “Those letters from this morning. You left them in the dining room, so I made sure to keep hold of them while everyone cleared up.”

She passed the two letters into her waiting hand once again, but she hurried away almost as soon as Amelie had uttered a thank you. 

She was always busy, Ashlen. Perhaps Amelie gave her too much work to do...

“Adelaide, do you want to go ahead?” She asked her with a smile. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

“OK!” She ran off towards the dining room at a speed that was far too fast for indoors.

Again, she should have scolded her for that. But, today, she wasn’t really feeling up to it, and she didn't want to dampen those spirits and risk losing this moment of tranquility.

Instead, she let her go as she cried out her excitement about the strawberries for all of them to hear, while she turned to the letters in her hand.

The first one had been the one she had looked at this morning, the one that she had been stupid enough to hope that it was Cullen with a reply to her letter.

_But...what if…?_

She opened it hurriedly. Then, her face fell. It wasn't a reply to her letter, but then she had been silly to imagine that it was. No, it was an invitation to a ball at the Winter Palace penned by Grand Duke Gaspard, of all people. She received these fairly regularly, and she always ignored them. She couldn’t think of anything worse than going to an imperial ball and facing the court alone, at the behest of someone she hardly knew.

Why he would think to invite her, she had no idea. He was probably just making up the numbers, as they normally did when their invitations reached beyond the borders of Orlaid.

She folded it up and put it to the side. After all, there was still one more letter, and she really didn't care about a ball in Orlais.

She held the other letter in her hands. It was upside down, she couldn't see who had penned it.

_What if…?_

She turned it over, and her heart sunk. It wasn't Cullen. It was Claudette. She shook her head. _Don't_ _be silly, Amelie. It's good to hear from your sister_.

She tore it open, her mind travelling to a world far away, where she wondered if Cullen had even bothered to read her letter.

Then it travelled to the dining room, where Adelaide would be waiting for her cake and strawberries.

She did like cake, and as her stomach was so keen to tell her, she definitely hadn't eaten enough in the garden.

She looked down at the parchment in her hand, scanning over the words that, surely, were no more interesting than the usual gossip filled bulletin that her sister sent her on almost a weekly filled basis. 

But they were. Oh Maker, they were.

Suddenly, she didn’t have the stomach to eat any food.

Suddenly, she forgot all about her letter to Cullen.

Suddenly, all of her previous worries were gone. Haven, her brother, Cullen, all thought of them vanished from her mind without trace as the words on the parchment in her hand began to swim before her eyes.

Oh Maker. Oh Claudette...


	17. Signed and Sealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie received two letters on the same day. There was one that she had no interest in. But the other, from her sister, promises to be much more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: body image. Amelie talks about her body image issues for a tiny bit here, please skip if needed.

She had left Claudette's letter on a table in her hallway, alongside the invitation to the ball that she had forgotten to get rid of. But that was OK, she didn't need it. Not when she the words had been etched into her mind where they danced in front of her eyes everytime she had a moment to herself.

_Amelie! Amelie!_

_You will never guess what has happened! _

_Remember what I told you before you left? A family had expressed their interest to us, one from Tantervale with a newly found fortune._

_Their son is coming to meet us, Amelie, to meet _me_! They will be here on Friday, which is somewhat late notice, I know. But I do hope that you’ll be able to come and meet him! It would mean the world to me to have my big sister with me when I meet what could be my betrothed, especially now that our brother isn’t here. _

_We have to stick together, us sisters. Now more than ever._

_You will come, won’t you? And Adelaide too?_

_Love from your favourite little sister,_

_Claudette._

The answer had been yes, of course. Not that she had given her one.

The letter wouldn’t have arrived in time, anyway.

Besides, she may have been good at writing letters, but on this occasion, she had had no idea what to say.

She should have been excited for her. She should have cried with delight and her mind should have raced with ideas of how her dress should look or what she should do with her hair. She should have poured her delight into the most heartfelt letter she could have ever hoped to have penned.

But she didn’t. 

Where her stomach should have been fluttering with a wave of excitement that would burst out into a series of exclamations of surprise and delight, it was instead churning with a fresh bout of nerves.

Within seconds, her mind had been taken over by memories of the first time that she had met her husband Richard. She remembered how her heart had filled with dread when she heard that they were to meet. She remembered her disappointment, how she had thought he looked sullen, sad, agrieved.

She soon learnt why.

Then she remembered her childhood, her school years, her days where her biggest concern was her annoying older brother who kept getting them both into trouble, and not how to please a husband who had married her out of convenience.

Those days that had been spent laughing and joking and playing beneath a warm Ostwick sun, had all vanished in a heartbeat, signed away with the flick of her quill as she had made a vow that meant nothing to her, but one which had sealed her fate for the rest of her days. She knew what marriage could mean for people like themselves, and she was indescribably nervous for her.

But there was a selfish aspect to the turbulence in her mind. There was a part of her that didn't worry about Claudette's future, or grieve for the life that she was about to leave behind.

It was the part of her that still grieved over the loss of her brother to lands far away, and a mission beyond her comprehension, and now she was about to lose her sister too.

Claudette would have her own life now. She would marry and have her own family, and would grow into a woman of many talents and many skills, of which she would likely surpass Amelie with very little effort.

She would be her own woman. She wouldn't need her older sister anymore. That upset Amelie far more than anything else.

It felt to her like the closing of a chapter near the end of a book. The last Trevelyan child sent off to be married, it really was the marking of the end of an era. Soon, her visits to her parents would be far less interesting, paling without the radiant light of her sister’s ever persistent beam.

She wondered if that smile would remain after her marriage, whether she would still be so excited, so full of joy.

Or would she become someone like Amelie, who had already begun to resemble their mother. Would she be bored and unfulfilled in an estate that was too large for her, lonely in the life that had been chosen for her? Would she be frustrated and stressed, so much so that she took it out on her own child?

Maker, she hoped not. She really hoped not.

If she could spare her from that fate, then she would. She would do anything to that end.

For now, nothing would change. It would go on as before, albeit with a tinge of excitement and anticipation bubbling beneath the surface. She knew that, and yet, it was strange to arrive at her parents home and see her sister waving from the doorstep with a beaming smile upon her face, just as she always had done. 

Nothing had changed, she was just the same woman that she always had been. Still her younger sister. Still untouched by the talons of a bitter marriage to a man who would never care for her.

Maybe she was being pessimistic, her judgement clouded by her own discontent. After all, not all noble marriages were like hers, Jennifer and her brother had been married for nine years now and– 

Nevermind, perhaps that wasn't the best example she could have thought of...

"Ameliiiieeeeeee!" She was brought violently back into the real world by a familiar cry of her name from Claudette. It must have been one of her more excited squeals; they usually weren’t _that_ shrill.

“Claudette!” She said with a warm smile as she approached her on the doorsteps of their parents home with Adelaide trailing behind her. 

The two embraced, and greeted each other in the Marcher fashion: a kiss on the cheek. 

Just as she had done at Skyhold…

_No, Amelie! Don’t think of Cullen!_

“It’s so nice to see you and, well, congratulations on your betrothal! How exciting for you!” She burst out before her cheeks could turn crimson and betray the thoughts that had begun to gather in her mind.

“I know right?” She said with a gleeful smile and a giggle that was as delicate as birdsong. “Well, it hasn’t happened yet. But it’s going well so far–”

Her shame was soon forgotten, replaced instead by the same bout of nerves that had overcome her before. “He’s already here?” 

“Yes! You are a little bit late, Amelie,” Claudette chastised her with her hands resting on her hips. But she soon gave up on her lecture, a smile breaking out onto her face as she grabbed Amelie’s hand. “So come on, we’d better hurry up! I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

She was marched into the home with such speed that she had to quickly grab Adelaide’s hand to ensure that she didn’t lose her, while trying desperately hard to ignore the rising tide of nerves that had stemmed from the pit of her stomach.

What would he be like? 

Would he be nice to her? Would he be good looking? Would he be wealthy, and able to look after her? 

“Mummy! Amelie is here!” Claudette cried as she dragged her through the door into their drawing room that their mother had always said was the ‘best’, fit only for the most dignified of guests. 

Her mother tutted from her armchair, where she sat with all the poise and composure of the most noble of ladies. Anyone would have thought that she was the very picture of grace and elegance, but Amelie could see a hint of irritation behind that mask.

She knew that look well; it was one that she often wore in Amelie’s presence.

“Finally…” She said with a roll of her eyes, and Amelie’s cheeks flushed with shame. 

Maker, she hoped she hadn’t embarrassed them.

“Amelie, this is Marcus Alessi,” Claudette ignored their gesture and sat herself down on the sofa next to a man who watched every single one of her movements. His eyes never found Amelie’s, never really acknowledged that she was here.

Besotted, some would say, enamoured by her sister’s beautiful hazel eyes and her delicate, slim frame.

Others would say that that delight in his eyes stemmed from ambition, greed.

That would be Amelie’s judgement.

He was a nobleman, nothing more, and she had learned long ago to never expect any more.

But she _had_ had more. Or, almost. Cullen had smiled when she was there, and when he smiled, his eyes shone and sparkled like the opulent jewelry that her mother had elected to wear. 

She had never known how Cullen had felt about her, or whether he had felt in the same way that she had, but she had known how Dorian and Lionel had felt about one another, she had seen the warmth in their eyes, and she had known what that had meant. 

It was a feeling that she had only read about in story books, where princesses caught the eye of a handsome, noble prince. 

But this Marcus Alessi, his dark brown eyes were seemingly lifeless, cold. When he watched her sister’s every move, he did so not with a look of adoration, but with an eye for opportunity. 

She knew, because that was how her husband had looked at her on the day she had been betrothed, and that look soon became replaced by boredom, fatigue 

It was a thirst for the finest jewel in an Orlesian jewellers shop window, or the hunger for a treasure hidden at the centre of a twisting cavern. Ambition. Greed. Opportunity. That was all that women like her were to men like him. An opportunity to dive into the fortunes of the patriarch of the Trevelyan family.

This Marcus Alessi was likely to be the same, if her own experiences had taught her anything.

Again, she could be being pessimistic. But she couldn’t help it.

She exchanged pleasantries with him, of course. He wasn’t an impolite man, and his smile was charming enough for Claudette to turn her head and stare up at him with her wide eyes filled with wonder.

But in spite of the fire that crackled away on the far end of the room, Amelie felt cold, a shiver running down her spine as a frost seemed to creep throughout the room and crawl over her pale, freckled splattered skin.

Was it him? Or was it her own, overwhelming sense of dread as the memories of her younger self refused to fade?

She wasn’t any good at reading people, that had always been one of her brother’s many talents. But she knew how it was to be a young woman like Claudette, waiting her whole life for the day that she would be married, the single thing that she had been raised for. Then came the disappointment, the realisation that this was it, that the day that she had been waiting for had been the day that the door to her prison had been sealed.

She desperately wanted to be wrong, she wanted Claudette’s marriage to be so different from her own. 

But her cold, cynical heart said otherwise.

She wouldn’t look. She would turn away, look elsewhere. 

She found Adelaide, looking down at the skirts of her puffy pink dress as she picked at a loose part of her hem.

She should tell her off for that, really..

"Amelie!” Her mother called to her suddenly, and all thoughts of scolding Adelaide escaped from her mind. Not that she was really in the mood, anyway. “Now that you’re here, I wanted to show you what your brother sent me from Orlais.”

She was bemused by her suggestion, at first. Then, she was in disbelief. He had had the time to send their mother a gift, but not to craft his wife a half-decent letter...

But then he always had been a mother's boy. It was a little bit sickening, at times.

Amelie sighed. She looked over at her sister again, but she didn't return her gaze. She wanted to know what she thought, how she felt.

From here, she looked happy, at least.

Good. That was good.

Maybe it would be alright after all, maybe they would be happy together…

“Amelie!” Her mother called to her again with her sharp gaze fringed with impatience.

Amelie sighed, her own impatience growing. “Of course, Mother. Come on, Adelaide.”

"No, don't bring Adelaide," her mother said quickly with a voice that was growing shrill. 

The room fell into silence. 

Claudette hadn’t been paying them any attention before; her eyes had been solely fixated upon the man in front of her as she talked and chattered and laughed until she was forced to stop for breath.

But not anymore. Her mother’s outburst had shocked even her.

"I just…" her mother began, as a tide of panic began to swell from deep within those emerald green eyes.. Then, within an instant, she had recovered, with a smile etching itself onto her face and a softness in her eyes that could have fooled anybody.

But then again, she had always been a master at playing these games. She’d been doing it for long enough.

"I haven't seen Amelie much since she got home,” she said with a smile that was meant to elicit pity. But Amelie knew better than to be fooled by her sorrowful eyes and her feeble smile. “I just wanted some time alone with her, that's all." 

It was a lie. Amelie had visited every week since she had returned well over a month ago now, and her mother had been one of the first people she had seen. After all, she had gone to collect Adelaide only days before at Amelie’s request, and she would never have left her daughter here for longer than she had to.

Claudette should have known that. She had been there on that day, and she had been there on the occasions that Amelie had visited since. But she didn't seem to care. She simply shrugged, and turned back towards the man with the charming smile, who didn't seem to care either.

Amelie didn't really want to leave. She wanted to stay, be there for her sister in case she needed it.

But she didn’t have the nerve to argue with her mother, she never really had done.

"Alright Adelaide, stay here. I'll be back soon," she said to her with a smile as she went to join her mother, but a tug on her arm stopped her from rising out of her chair. 

"I don't want to stay here by myself," she blurted out all of a sudden, as she looked up at Amelie with her eyes wide with fear.

She had always been confident, far more so even than Antony, who was almost two years older than her. She spoke her mind, sometimes to her detriment, and she could talk to anyone who crossed her path about, well, anything. Normally, it was some story she had concocted about pirates, or whatever her interest was at the time.

So why was she being so...weird? 

Was she doing it to be defiant? To show her up?

That was the most likely.

Or perhaps she too had picked up on the atmosphere in this room. Perhaps she too had felt that cold creep onto her pale, freckled skin.

The first option was the most likely. But she wasn’t in the mood to argue. 

She hadn’t been ever since that day when they had eaten strawberries together. She was worried that she would risk that tiny moment of peace that they had managed to foster,

"Maybe you could go and wait in the dining room?" Amelie suggested with just the hint of a sigh. She had been so sweet the other afternoon, and she had no interest in scolding her. But, Maker, it would be so much easier if she just did what she was told. "I'm sure someone can get you something to drink."

"Or some cake?" She asked as she looked up at Amelie with hope in her eyes. She was just like herself, easily won over by the promise of cake.

_Just like herself…_

"Yeah, maybe," she told her as she watched her hop off of the chair and march out of the room with her frizzy red hair flouncing behind her in tandem with her puffy pink dress. 

She couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps they really did have more in common than she realised.

"You should watch it with the bribery, Amelie," her mother said under her breath as they left Claudette and Marcus and walked out into the hallway. "I fear that she'll take after you and, you know, enjoy her food a little bit too much."

Amelie rolled her eyes as a blush spread across her cheeks. "Yeah, OK Mother."

Did she? 

She found herself hugging her arms to her chest, as if to protect herself, or to detract from the view of her arms that she knew were too big for her mother’s standards.

She had always been bigger than her siblings, taking after her father’s broad build more than any of them. But then again, she had never really lost weight after having Adelaide, apart from when her husband was ill and she often forgot to eat. 

But now she was on her own, she could eat whatever she wanted, _whenever_ she wanted. It was...fantastic.

"Well I'm just saying!" She cried as she led her into the room at the front of the house that was her favourite to take her tea in. It wasn’t as opulent as the other room; it was more cosy, more homely, and she had filled it with dried flowers, and floral cushions, and portraits that she had commissioned of their family.

There was a particularly hideous one of Amelie with her siblings. She remembered standing for that out in the garden, pretending that they were playing a sweet game together out beneath the sprawlings trees, when they were probably just getting on each other’s nerves.

Except they didn’t really, not back then. They were as thick as thieves, particularly herself and her brother.

Not anymore. He was in another world now. But if she was to be truthful, they had grown apart a long time before the Conclave had even been announced. 

That was what happened when you grew up and got married; Claudette would be next.

Seeing that portrait now only made her more on edge, and with her mother being so insufferable this morning, it was only making her feel worse.

She always had to _just say_. She could never find it in herself to be polite, or to stay quiet. It frustrated her more than she could ever hope to articulate, not that she ever would in her mother’s presence.

She sighed again, mirroring her mother’s earlier impatience. "What did you want to show me, Mother?"

"Oh nothing!” She said with a shrug and a wave of her hand. “Not that your brother didn't get me anything, of course. He’s such a good boy, looking after his mother. He got me this–"

"Right so why did you make me follow you in here?" She asked her, folding her arms across her chest as she cut through her mother’s attempts to rummage for whatever Lionel had bought for her. 

She really couldn’t bring herself to care what it was, she wanted to know why her mother was being so...like her mother.

"Alright, no need to be so rude, Amelie," she tutted in a way that only made her more impatient. She wasn’t _trying_ to be rude.... "I just wanted to talk to you...privately."

Her defensive stance weakened within an instant as she forgot all about her mother’s remark, and instead welcomed a fresh wave of nerves. "What about?" 

"Him! Marcus Alessi!" She cried with a wagging finger pointing towards the door they had come through. "I want to know what you think of him, what "

Amelie was lost for words. She didn’t really think anything of _him_, she just had a lot of thoughts about...well, all of this.

"I...I don't know," she said sheepishly as she shrugged and turned away from her mother’s gaze.

"Oh Maker's sake! This is when we need your brother here," her mother said with a roll of her eyes. "Well, I could always write to him, I suppose, see what he makes of it all..."

Amelie couldn't help but be confused. After all, she succinctly remembered being 17 years old and hearing her parents ignore Lionel's damning criticism that her husband had been too old for her, and too boring.

Besides, he wasn’t even here. He was in Skyhold, presumably. Or in Ferelden, or Orlais, gallivanting about on adventures while she – no, the rest of them – were trapped in their noble houses obsessing over contracts and deals and, in her case, secrets. _His_ secrets.

Meanwhile, Amelie was here, right in front of her. Couldn't _she_ help?

"Why?" Amelie said with a scoff of indignation. “What good is he going to be when he isn’t here?"

“Well, you’ve got a point there…” her mother admitted with a sigh. “It’s just…”

“What?”

“Well…” she said with a sigh of discomfort, as she began to wander about the room as her hands twisted and turned in front of her.

Amelie was left to watch her, and she was growing more frustrated by the second. “What?”

“I just think…”

“Mother, what is it?” Amelie cried as her patience all of a sudden. “Is there a problem?”

“No! Not really…” she said, but her green eyes refused to meet Amelie’s and her fingers danced with one another as she wrung her hands in front of her. “But...it’s Claudette! She’s beautiful and elegant, and she’s just…”

“Perfect?” Amelie offered with a sigh.

“Yes!” Her mother cried with delight, before she returned once again to her incessant hand wringing. “She could have anyone she wants, and I just don’t feel as if she’s had the chance to, well..._get_ anyone she wants.”

“Mother, she’s 21, it’s been years…” she said with a sigh. Although she couldn’t help but admit that she was right. 

Claudette was beautiful, and elegant. She was charming and sweet, and had the confidence to walk into a room full of people and talk to every single one until their ears bled.

She _could_ have anyone she wanted. But in spite of that, no one had come forward until now.

That was just how it was when you were the youngest child. Most of the fortune had already been distributed. 

It didn’t matter how beautiful you were if you were the youngest child, or how plain you were if you were the older one.

Or that was what she had thought.

“Only because your father has been dragging his feet!” She said then with an accusatory gesture towards the direction of his study at the back of the house. 

Amelie looked at her with disbelief. “And why would he do that?”

“Because she’s his favourite, everyone knows that,” her mother rolled her eyes then, pausing mid-stride as she threw Amelie a guilt ridden look.

But she was right. Everyone _did _know that.

Especially Amelie.

“Anyway…” her mother said with a shake of her head, as if that could erase the words that she had just said. “The point I’m trying to make is that it feels like your father has sort of just...settled...with whoever will take her. When you were of age, we took you to parties all over Thedas. And then look at you! You would have had a title of your own if you weren’t silly enough to give it away!"

She was right. She _had_ done well. As soon as her brother had been married, they had turned their gaze towards her. She had been escorted to parties all over Thedas, from galas in the Marches, to balls in Orlais, even to Ferelden…

_Orlais…_

Her mind raced back to those letters that she had read. The one from Claudette, inviting her here on this day. Then, the other one. The invite, the one that she had discarded without a second thought.

Orlais...the ball…

“Mother…” she called out as an idea formed in her mind. 

But she wasn’t listening. She had returned to her muttering, her hand-wringing, her pacing about the room as she worked out the thoughts and anxieties that Amelie hadn’t been listening to.

"I just have this...I don't know...a feeling about him–"

“Mother...” she tried again, but she still wasn’t listening.

“–And we don’t even know who he is!” She muttered, she twisted her hands, she paced. Over and over again. “I mean, he has no lineage to speak of besides from a grandfather who–”

“MOTHER!” 

Her mother stopped in her tracks, turning to her with her eyes as wide as a fennec’s caught in the lamplight of a stalking hunter. “What is it, Amelie?” 

“I have an idea,” she said slowly, revelling somewhat in the attention that she won from her mother.

Her ears pricked up as she watched her, studied her, even, with a sharp, pointed scowl. “What’s that?”

“I’ve received an invitation for a ball in Orlais, from one of Richard’s old friends, I think,” she began to explain, but her mother soon interjected.

“A ball? In Orlais?” She cried with disbelief. “Where? Who with?”

“Mother!” She chastised her, before composing herself with a heavy sigh and shake of her head. “It’s the imperial ball, at the Winter Palace in–”

“Halamshiral?” Her mother practically exploded in front of her eyes. “You’ve been invited to a ball, at Halamshiral?” Then, excitement evolved into frustration. “This had better not be a joke, Amelie Louise–”

“It isn’t a joke, Mother!” She cried with her voice becoming more strained by the second. “I received an invite yesterday. It’s at the beginning of next months so I’d have to leave soon, but if you wanted I could bring–”

“Claudette, yes! Bring Claudette!” She practically screamed, her green eyes lighting up with glee as she brought her hands to her mouth with excitement. “That’s perfect! She'll meet so many people there, _Orlesians_, too! Oh she _has_ to go!"

“But what about Father…”

“Oh don’t worry about him, I’ll work on that,” she said dismissively. “This is an opportunity we _can’t_ miss! No matter what your father might say, this deal with Lord Alessi may be nearly done, but it has _not_ been signed and it has _not_ been sealed!” 

She scuttled away from her then, hurrying towards the door with a sudden burst of energy. But before she could reach the threshold, she turned back to Amelie, with her excitement continuing to pour out of her while she spoke in an increasingly squeaky voice.

“Oh! You never know, you might find a husband for yourself there too!” She said as she clapped her hands with glee and hurried out of the room, leaving Amelie to stew alone in the words that she had just heard.

She all but choked on her mother’s words.

Her fears from long ago, from before she had left Haven, had been correct.

Her mother really wanted her to find another husband, to sign away another chapter of her life just when she had finally earned some semblance of freedom...

But while her heart sunk beneath the weight of her dread, she did not let it dampen her spirit. No. Amelie would be damned if she was going to court the noble men of Halamshiral in search of a husband.

No. She would not give her mother the satisfaction.

No. This was for Claudette, and she was all that mattered.

That was one thing that she could agree with her father on.

“If anything happens to Claudette under your watch,” he had spat at her on the day they had left for Orlais. But he didn’t need to finish with his lecture.

“It won’t,” she had promised him, and she had meant it. 

Nothing would happen to Claudette under her watch. Nothing bad, anyway. But something good could happen, perhaps. And maybe for herself too. 

She had dismissed her mother’s assertions that she would find a husband for herself. But she could enjoy a break, at least, from the home that had so quickly ceased to be her refuge, her safe space, and had instead evolved into a prison.

She remembered how free she had felt in Haven. Perhaps she could claw back some of that freedom again, as she dared to spend even a few moments away from the life that had become so dreary, so drab. Away from her responsibilities, away from her parents, from Jennifer, from Adelaide. 

She felt a little bit guilty about the last one but, Maker, she wouldn’t miss those arguments and tantrums – even if those arguments had subsided in the past few days. Besides, she hadn’t been bothered about her leaving last time, apparently, she hadn’t missed her. 

But what she looked forward to the most, was that she would be away from the secrets that she had been harbouring, that had bothered her since she had returned home. Her brother, Dorian, Cullen. 

That letter she had written, that kiss upon the cheek.

She didn’t have to worry about hiding those in a place where no one knew her, where people wouldn’t just show up at her door without invitation, asking questions that she did not want to answer.

Perhaps going to this ball wouldn’t be so terrible after all. Perhaps, what had been designed as an escape for Claudette, could also become an escape for herself.

Perhaps. But she knew that the golden sun of Orlais cast many shadows upon the Winter Palace, and she knew that, if any good were to come out of this trip, she had to be on her guard.

But even with that worry, that threat, lying ahead of her, it still felt like a retreat from her life in Ostwick. Because there was no sanctuary in Ostwick anymore, no peace, no comfort. Only tedium, and exhaustion, and secrets.

Perhaps it was just what she needed. Perhaps it would be a welcome retreat.

Perhaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: ok i know most people have already read this by this point but im saying it anyway seeing as some people have asked. Ive made a new tumblr blog so if youre a tumblr user you can find me there as inqsmabari.tumblr.com. ill say this again next week because most of you will probably miss this but anyway


	18. In the Realm of the Golden Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The invitation to the imperial ball was set to remain unopened, discarded on a table in Amelie’s hall where it should have been forgotten. But that was not to be. Instead, she has found herself accompanying her sister to Halamshiral, where she hopes to find a brighter future for her beneath the gaze of the golden sun, and in spite of the shadows that it may cast.

Beneath a burning sun, the fields around Halamshiral shimmered amidst a gentle breeze that carried with it the chorus of a thousand birds. Amelie had missed it, the peace and quiet of the countryside that surrounded the city at the heart of Orlais’ Grand Game, where there existed little more than a hint of the hustle and bustle of the city that lay upon the horizon.

From the master bedroom of the villa she had inherited, she could see the walls of the city in the plains below, where they would soon be passing the evening mingling with stuffy nobles who hid behind outrageously obscene masks, who just so happened to be some of the most powerful people in Thedas.

Orlais was a beautiful place, when it wanted to be. The villa, with its glistening white stone walls that formed a labyrinth of rooms which surrounded a courtyard in its centre, was even more so.

She loved being here, really. It was peaceful, quiet, still. It had been a place that her husband had hardly visited, and as such, it had become a place that was very much her own. It wasn’t cold like her home in Ostwick, it hadn’t been poisoned by memories, nor by that sense of entrapment that came from spending her entire adult life looking out of those windows at the world without, without once daring to step foot in it.

It was peaceful. It was quiet. And although a gentle breeze lifted off of the plains below and danced its way through the orchards, it was as if the place was frozen in time, existing in a bubble untouched by the chaos of the world around it.

Orlais was a beautiful place, when it chose to be. It was just a shame that Orlesians were so...so much like her mother, who had always been so proud of their Orlesian heritage that she had absorbed herself in the culture, the mannerisms, and unfortunately, the personalities, that were so distinct to the Orlesian character.

So as beautiful as it was, she couldn’t help but imagine this night becoming very tiresome, very quickly. 

“Oh this place is sooooooo beautiful!” Claudette all but shrieked as she scurried into the room that Amelie was getting ready in. Thankfully, Amelie had just about had her dress laced up before Claudette barged her way in, with her ladies still working on lacing the back which went all the way up to the top of her neck. It was one that her mother had approved of, of course. Dark blue, with enough lacing to prove just how expensive it had been, but not too much that it would be considered garish.

And of course, it covered her head to toe, from her chin down to balls of her feet. Just how Amelie liked it, and their mother, of course.

“Honestly Amelie, I can’t believe you don’t make better use of this place!”” Claudette said with a dreamy sigh as she ran over to the window and poked her head out of it. “If _I_ had a villa in Orlais that was so close to Halamshiral, I wouldn’t be seen dead in _Ostwick_!” Claudette said with a flick of her chestnut brown hair. “Didn’t you have a house here too, somewhere nearer to the Dales?”

“It was Richards, I never went there,” she said dismissively as a tug at the back of her neck told her that her dress had been laced. “His brother has it now anyway.”

“Oh,” Claudette said with a purse of her lips as her eyes travelled around Amelie’s room and her toe tapped against the cold stone floor.“Anyway, moving on. I need your opinion on which dress I should wear tonight...”

“What do you mean, which one?” Amelie turned to her with a look of bewilderment. “Mother already helped us to choose our dresses. You’re wearing–”

“So yeah anyway, I have the blue one just like yours,” she ignored her completely as she turned and scurried out of the room, leaving Amelie alone for a few moments before she reappeared in the doorway with a red dress cradled in her arms. “Oooorrrrrrr I have this one!”

Amelie was taken aback. “Where did you get that? I thought Mother packed your clothes for you?”

“Yeah, and I snuck it in afterwards,” she shrugged as she held up the dress and showed off its trailing red skirt. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it! Jennifer gave it to me.”

Amelie felt a little bit nauseous at the mention of Jennifer’s name. 

But no, she mustn’t think about...that. Not now.

“She leant that to you?”

“No silly! I would never fit into her clothes. She’s _tiny,_” Claudette said with a scoff, although Amelie would argue that Claudette was _also_ tiny, compared to herself, anyway . “She had it made for me as a 21st birthday present! And look at the neckline–”

Claudette held the dress out in front of her, so that its skirts trailed upon the marble floor beneath their feet.

She could see exactly what she meant now. The neckline really was...something.

Maker, Amelie would never be seen in such an exposing attire at an Orlesian high society ball, let alone one held by the empress, and she couldn’t help but wonder, with Claudette’s much more petite frame than her own, if it would have stayed on if not for two thick straps that she would cut across her upper arm.

“Claudette, you can’t…” She began, but Claudette clearly wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

“Oh don’t be so boring,” She said with a huff of indignation and a roll of her eyes. “It’s very _in_.”

“Well, you know that Mother would hate it. You know what she always says about ladies wearing red,” Amelie told her with her eyebrows raised and her expression pained. 

Claudette’s face turned as red as her dress as she huffed once again. “Yes, well, don’t even get me _started_ on how inappropriate and _wrong_ that is–”

“I know but…" she said, interrupting her before she could have the chance to express her frustrations. Because she was right of course, their mother had a habit of being presumptuous, and ridiculous. 

But it didn't matter who was right, it mattered that they stay out of trouble. "What if she finds out?"

“She won’t! Will she?" She asked as an expression of horror fell upon her face. Then, the tears threatened to fall, just as they always did when she had been inconvenienced. “You… you won’t tell her...w-w-will you?”

Defeated, she sighed. Like anyone else, she couldn’t stand to see her cry. “No, of course not. But others might. You never know who’s lurking about in the shadows of the Winter Palace."

“Hmph,” Claudette stuck out her bottom lip, which she bit at nervously for a few seconds, while Amelie could see the effort that she was putting in to hold back her tears. “Well...I’ve never broken the rules before. It can’t help to do it just this once, can it?”

She giggled then, a childish bubble of laughter that radiated innocence, and hinted at a naivety that perhaps Amelie herself had once shared when she had been Claudette’s age.

She hoped that she wasn’t about to lose that endearing sense of naivety. She hoped that tonight wouldn't be a rude awakening for her. She hoped that, when the night was over, she would still have that sweet smile that was ever present upon her face, and her eyes would still light up with just a hint of gold shining within her hazel eyes.

She would hope, and she would pray, and she would do everything she could to make sure that that didn’t happen, that she enjoyed her night out in Orlais, and that she shared a dance with a handsome, rich, man of good standing who would care for her, look after her, perhaps even come to love her.

She was so excited to be here, that much was clear, and Amelie did not have the heart to ruin her fun before the night had even started.

"I think you should wear that red one," she told her finally, as she conjured up a smile that she knew was weak and unconvincing. But Claudette didn’t notice.

"I knew it!" She cried out with joy as she clutched the dress close to her chest and twirled on the spot. "Oh Amelie, this is going to be so much fun! I'm so happy you brought me here."

"Well, I didn't want to come by myself," she said with a fainthearted laugh. She didn't want to admit that, actually, she didn't want to come here at all, that she was here for Claudette's sake, and her sake only.

Claudette laughed with her, but it wasn’t as bright as it usually was. Concern was in her eyes, and uncertainty in her pursed lips, as she dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "But...should I have asked Marcus to come, though? I mean...shouldn’t I have accompanied him to something like this? I'm not really sure how these things work…"

The answer was simple, for a woman such as Amelie who had played the game for so long now. Yes, she should have. Amelie knew that. Although they weren't engaged yet, as far as Claudette knew. But behind the scenes, all of the preparations and negotiations would have taken place. It would be unseemly for a woman who was all but promised to another to be seen dancing at a ball with someone else. Or it would be offensive, at least. It would risk any alliances that had been made, any deals that had been struck.

Amelie knew that it was almost a done deal. Amelie knew that she shouldn't really have been here, that they shouldn't be bringing her to the attention of high society at such a late stage.

But Claudette didn't, and it was best if it stayed that way.

She was happy. That was what mattered right now.

Once this was over, once she was married to whichever man she ended up with, she may not be this happy ever again.

That was why Amelie lied. "No, I don't think so. You aren't actually engaged yet, so I don’t really see what the problem would be.”

It was an easier lie to tell than Amelie had expected. But then, the chances of her actually finding a suitable candidate for marriage at a single event held at such a late stage in her matchmaking years, were very slim.

She knew how this worked. By Claudette’s age, Amelie had been on the eve of her wedding day after years of circulating high society in the hopes of finding a match, and that was considered late for a woman of such prospects. Her mother always said it was because she carried too much weight. Amelie thought it was because all of the men she had met were hopelessly boring, with little behind their pretend smiles and worn down courtesies, and she simply wasn’t that good at pretending to be interested. She always had been a bad liar.

Lionel was matched when he was almost 19, but then again, it was easier for the first born child of a Bann of Ostwick, much easier than it ever had been for Claudette, who hadn’t even stepped foot in a party like this before.

_“Because she’s his favourite, everyone knows that,” _

"No...you’re right," she sighed as she slumped over to a nearby chaise lounge and sat in the corner with her chin resting in her hands, while her eyes stared out of the window, as if a dream were playing out in her head. A dream of the perfect marriage, perhaps, the perfect children, the perfect life. It was a dream that had long been abandoned by Amelie. "I do wish that Father would hurry up and get it all over with. But then again, it is all rather fun to get to come to a ball! And I guess when I'm married, I won’t be doing things like this anymore…"

She sighed again, but there was more weight to it this time. It was heavy, weary, sad.

Amelie found her eyes again, but they didn’t seem to want to find her. They continued to stare out of that window, watching the world go by. The dream that played itself out in her head appeared to take a turn for the worse, as the light in those endless forests of autumn speckled green began to wane.

And there it was, that worry, that dread, that fear that had been in Amelie’s heart all of those years ago too. 

It was exactly what she had hoped to avoid by bringing her here.

She turned to the servant who had migrated from her dress to her hair, arranging it into a bun on the back of her head that looked a little untidy, but in a way that it was so clearly designed to be. "Excuse me, could you leave us for a moment please?" 

At this rate, they would never finish getting ready. Claudette was still in the clothes she had been wearing about the villa all day. 

"Claudette, is something on your mind?" She asked her quietly. No one was there to hear her, of course. But she hoped that her tone was reassuring, at least.

"Me? No!" She squeaked as a flush of red crept onto her cheeks and illuminated the splattering of freckles on her nose. "Well…"

She huffed, her shoulders rising and falling in time with her loud, sharp, exhale. There was a tap against the old stone floor, a pitter patter that matched the rhythm of her foot as it danced in tandem with a finger that drummed against her chin.

Then, suddenly, she burst into life. "It just would have been nice to have done this type of thing more often, you know, _before _I got engaged. Or betrothed, whatever.”

Amelie's heart drowned in a sea of dread. 

Those were the first seeds of doubt, planting themselves into Claudette’s mind. She recognised them so clearly, after all, she had fallen victim to them as well.

She sighed, and repeated her statement from earlier. "You aren't engaged yet, Claudette."

There was still hope, perhaps.

"Well, I may as well be!" She cried out with a scoff of indignation, and Amelie wanted to curse as she heard that Claudette had seen right through her assurances. _Oh Maker_. "Everything's been sorted now, I've met him and–"

Amelie was overwhelmed by pity. But then, how could she not be? 

That had been her once, with her eyes fixed upon the glorious world that lay without, a world that would stay hidden behind a pane of glass for the rest of her life, never to be hers.

"Are you having doubts?" 

"Not really!" She insisted, although her fidgeting hands and her bitten lip betrayed her true thought. "It just feels as if – I don't know – everything has just been decided and...well..that's it."

This was what she had dreaded, what she had feared. This was what she had hoped to avoid by bringing her here.

Because that was exactly how Amelie had felt. Trapped. As if someone had plotted the course of her life within five minutes over a glass of champagne sipped between the courses of a glorious feast, at the very moment that she had begun to live her life and explore the world around her.

Trapped. A bird in a cage, who’s wings became battered and bruised and they thumped against the wooden bars with every attempt to fly away.

But it didn’t have to be the same for Claudette, did it? She didn’t have to be trapped, she didn’t have to settle for the first man who came to her door. She could have this moment, this night, where she was allowed to be herself, where she could be courted by the finest suitors in the land, where she could dance with anyone she pleased and charm the heart of a handsome lord.

She would hope, and she would pray, and she would do whatever it took to make it that way.

To make her little sister happy.

Amelie approached the chaise lounge, wary of her dress that was still only partially laced, and sat herself down next to her sister. 

She wanted to comfort her, but she wasn't very good at that.

Besides, how could she, when everything she had said had been so painfully true?

Nothing she could say would make a difference, because nothing she could say could counter the unfortunate truth lay in plain sight.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to in the end. Claudette came to her own rescue.

"I’m so glad I could come here with you, Amelie!" She said as she turned to her with the ghost of a smile. "I guess I was just feeling a little...put out...that you and Lionel got to go to so many parties before you got married, and meet so many people. While I was just sort of...put with someone, and that was it."

Oh yes, those parties. Those damned parties. She remembered them well.

She remembered how she had dutifully gone to every event that she had been made to attend, how she had behaved like a true lady, charming her way through hordes of suitors and dancing with every man who asked, remembering the lessons that she had been taught by her governess and her school.

She had hated it, but she had obliged, had done her duty.

And before her, her brother had been sent all over Thedas to do the same. But he had rebelled, resisted, sabotaged every effort that their parents had taken to have him matched up. He would disappear from parties, he would commit social faux-pas, he would drink and place bets and gamble away his dignity. In the end, he had hidden away in their grandparents' home, but even they could not protect him from his fate. his future had been signed away without him even knowing, behind his back where he couldn’t even attempt to try and undermine it. 

In the end, he had obliged. Just as she had. Although to this day, it shocked her that he ever did.

But they had at least been given the chance, she could say that much. They had had little choice in the matches they had ended up with, and they had both hated every second of the whole process, but there had been a chance, at least.

Amelie could see exactly where Claudette was coming from. She had never been given that chance. That was what her mother had taken issue with, that was why Amelie had brought her all the way to Orlais, away from the eyes of their parents where, hopefully, she could have a little bit more fun than either of them had had. Well, at least Lionel could say that he had had fun, anyway.

“Well, then it’s a good idea we came!” Amelie told her with a new found enthusiasm. “Make the most of tonight, Claudette. Have fun, dance with as many people as you want–”

“What about Marcus?” Claudette asked with a look of concern on her face. 

“Oh forget about him for now,” she dismissed her with a flippant wave of her hand. “Like I said you’re not engaged yet. Just have fun! Don’t worry about anything, just enjoy yourself.”

She didn’t know why she had said those things, but now there was no taking them back. Her mother would have pursed her lips if she had heard her say that, her father would have shouted and cursed at her until day had passed to night, or he had run out of words to say in the Common Tongue, whatever came first

But deep down, she knew that she had uttered those words because she wished someone had said that to her when she was Claudette’s age. She wished she had spent those last years before her marriage enjoying every second of her freedom. In fact, she wished someone would say that to her now, that it was OK to have fun, to enjoy herself just a little bit. 

Except she had forgotten how to. The closest she had gotten to a sense of enjoyment was when she was in Ferelden with the Inquisition, spending time with her brother outside of their hectic lives, meeting all of those new people who were so kind to her, meeting Cullen, who had made her feel so comforted at a time when the world was exceptionally cruel.

She still thought about him sometimes. What he was doing, how he was, whether he had read that letter that she had placed upon his mantlepiece, and whether he had thought about that parting kiss as much as she had.

But everytime she did, she pushed it to the back of her mind, just as she did now.

There were more important things to focus on tonight. She had to look after Claudette, keep her safe.

She couldn’t afford to get distracted, not in Orlais, not while they were witnesses, pawns, even, in the Grand Game.

“Oh Amelie, I will! Thank you!” Claudette lunged at her as she wrapped her arms around her for a tight hug that almost squeezed the life out of her. Somehow, she was always caught off guard by Claudette’s sudden embraces, even after all these years of falling victim to them. “I’m so glad I could come. I can’t wait to get to the palace. What’s it like? Who will be there?”

“You’ll find out soon,” Amelie told her with a smile as she was released from his vice like grip. “But you need to finish getting ready first, we’re already running late!”

“Oh don’t be silly, Amelie,” Claudette said with a flippant wave of her hand. “I’m never _late, _I’m _fashionably _late.”

That was, of course, entirely true. She was almost always just a little bit late, but she would own every second of it, making sure that no one could possibly miss her late arrival as heads turned to meet the one who had dared to turn up after the bells on the clock had already heralded the passing of the hour.

Amelie was not like that. She couldn’t stand being late, it was one of the many things that Adelaide would do to wind her up. She would get her dress dirty just before they were due to leave, or knock an elbow on a table and earn herself a large bruise. 

It was infuriating, exhausting. It was so...not Amelie.

And likewise, as they entered the Winter Palace on that evening, Amelie found herself feeling frustrated before they had even crossed the threshold into the palace grounds. She tried so hard not to be, to own it, just as Claudette would. Or just not care, as Lionel would have done.

But she couldn't do any of those things. She couldn’t not care, she couldn’t convince herself that lateness was fashionable. She was late, plain and simple, and it made her nervous, fidgety, tense.

"There's a lot of soldiers here," Claudette noted as she struggled to keep up with Amelie’s incessant march. "And what insignia is that? I've never seen it before...it's like...like a wiggly eye."

"I don't know," she said without even looking. There would be representatives from hundreds of noble families here, all with their own personal guard. She didn’t have time to stop and think about who they may belong to. Not when they were running so late.

All that mattered, was getting inside before the bells tolled, before the dancing started, before the night began. 

Mercifully, they did. And to her surprise, many guests continued to arrive long after they did.

Perhaps they hadn’t been as late as she had feared...

Within the Winter Palace, there always existed an energy that was entirely unique to the world inside those four walls. It was as if every statue, every portrait, every extravagantly decorated balustrade, was alive, and humming with a buzz of excitement that was amplified by the chatter and laughter that took place around them. 

Amelie had always hated it. It was too busy, too noisy, too–

"Oh I love it!" Claudette cried, although it was hard to hear her above the ever persistent roar of conversation that swelled around them.

Amelie watched as a hint of gold caught the strip of brown in her hazel eyes even as they hid in the shadow of a silver mask lined with sparkling jewels, and noted how a smile stretched across her face that was tinted with wonder. 

Maker, she was glad she had done this. She was glad she had brought her here. It was worth all of the hassle, worth the anger of her father, nonetheless, to see the delight upon Claudette's face.

"Oh and look at all of these amazing outfits, Amelie!" she said with a high pitched squeal. "And look! Lots of people are wearing red tonight” See, I told you it was in season!"

Amelie turned away from her smug grin, choosing instead to look out upon the courtiers that had amassed in an ever humming swarm in the heart of the palace of Empress Celene herself, where they chattered and laughed from behind masks made of gold, or ivory, or silver like their own.

Claudette wasn't wrong. There did seem to be a lot of people wearing red, with a large group of people gathering around the balustrade in a particularly alarming shade of crimson. 

They moved closer, following the swarm as it made its way into the main ballroom and towards the large pit in the centre, where Amelie had seen performers entertain, and courtiers dance, and on some occasions, daring bards make their move against an unsuspecting victim.

And as they gathered alongside the crowd who had amassed at the balustrade, they found themselves closer to the gathering of guests adorned with red, who stood on the other side of the pit from them. From here, she could see that an alarming sash of blue sliced through the red silk, while their collars, their sleeves, their fastenings, were laced with gold.

They all looked the same, every single one. 

"Claudette, that's a uniform," Amelie told her with a sigh and a roll of her eyes that would be largely obscured by her mask. "They're probably soldiers."

"Oh…soldiers," she said thoughtfully as her gaze drifted towards them. "Anyway, what do we do first?"

"We wait," Amelie instructed her as she lowered her voice to a whisper and leant in closer towards Claudette's ear. "The Empress will be opening the ball soon, we have to wait for her to do so before we can do anything else."

She heard Claudette groan, and quite rightly too. Amelie couldn't be less interested in what the Empress of Orlais had to say. 

Unless she was to call out the names of any interesting attendees, then she might begin to pay attention.

For Claudette’s sake, of course.

It was only a small gap that they had occupied on the very corner of the balustrade, but Amelie was tall, and she had no problem looking over Claudette who was so much smaller than her. Not that there would be much to see, she imagined.

Besides, it was difficult to see very much from behind her mask. But she did note that that sea of red had spilled out onto the pit of the arena below. It was a uniform so bright, so brilliant, that the reflections appeared as shimmering spectres in the glistening floor beneath their feet, that floated and danced into the shadows that stemmed from the imposing figure of the Empress. 

There weren't many of them, and most of them were out of her peripheral vision, which was so constrained by her mask that it was already beginning to give her a headache.

Maker, she remembered now why she hated Orlais.

"Oh my gosh! Amelie! AMELIE!" There was an incessant tug at her sleeve that dragged her attention away from the spectres on the ballroom floor, and a loud cry that should have turned the heads of half of the court. 

She tried not to look at her, tried to keep her composure. 

They could not be seen to be talking amongst themselves during the Empress' opening speech.

"What is it?" She whispered to her hurriedly.

"LOOK! Look who it is!" Claudette practically screamed, alarming a woman next to her who cursed at her in Orlesian. “I can’t believe this! What is he doing here?”

Amelie, her cheeks burning beneath her silver mask, turned to her sister with a sharp frown as she prepared to give her a lecture on decorum. 

But she didn't. Instead her eyes fell once again upon those soldiers in red. Three of them stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Another stood at their head with their attentions drawn towards the Empress, but she could see their eyes scanning the crowd, reveling in their curiosity and admiration, enjoying the moment that they had become the centre of attention even as they basked in the glory of Empress Celene's radiant majesty.

She looked at them for a moment, watched them, studied them.

Then, they turned towards them, and everything clicked into place.

The soldiers outside, the mass of red uniforms, the turning of everyone's attentions to this one small gathering of people who had taken over the entire ballroom even in the presence of the Empress herself.

Then she heard Celene utter a title that she had not heard for a long time, one that had been bestowed on the steps of a dilapidated castle in the wake of Haven's demise.

_"Inquisitor,"_

She tore off her mask, her face bare and exposed amongst a sea of silvers and golds, a statement that would surely not have gone unnoticed.

But she didn't care, not anymore. Not now.

With herself exposed, she could catch him in her net; the Inquisitor, her brother, his hazel eyes meeting hers of emerald green.

They found her, they studied her, and as they did so, they did not widen with surprise, or light up with joy, as they fell upon the siblings that he hadn’t seen in so many months now.

No. They filled with horror. They filled with worry. They filled with dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew well I hope you all enjoyed that! God I just love the Winter Palace so much and I am *excited*!
> 
> Just a quick note as well to say that I recently made a new tumblr blog so if you want to follow me on there for fic updates and such (especially with AO3 having issues with emails right now) you can find me as inqsmabari.tumblr.com.
> 
> Thanks! See you all again in a couple of weeks time! <3


	19. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Empress's masquerade, Amelie and Claudette have unexpectedly found themselves standing in front of her brother and his Inquisition, leaving her with a lot of questions. Why is he here? Is it a coincidence? And who else from the Inquisition has joined him?

There were dark corners in every room of the Winter Palace, areas which remained untouched by the candles that shone from chandeliers to illuminate rooms that appeared to be constructed out of pure gold. They were the parts of the palace that it was best to avoid, Amelie knew. That was where deals were made, or broken. Where secrets were shared, or hidden. Where bards did their foul deeds, or became overcome by cowardice at the very last moment.

And yet, she had found herself here, with her face exposed to the moonlight that trickled in from a window at the end of the hall and reflected off of her jewel encrusted mask, where it danced across the walls in a dazzling array of colours, mirroring the beauty of the ballroom outside.

This was not where a lady of her standing should find herself at a Grand Masquerade. This was not where she wanted to be, and certainly not where she had wanted to bring Claudette.

But it was where her brother had brought them, and he had not given them the chance to argue.

"What in Andraste's name are you doing here, Amelie?" Lionel asked her with such urgency that he almost sounded angry, desperate, his hazel eyes narrow and beady as they sat in an ever reddening face.

It was a good question, as they stood in a dark corridor of the Winter Palace that was very clearly out of bounds – if the locked door was anything to go by. But as for why she was in the Winter Palace, well, that was an easy question to answer, surely.

Why should she not be? A daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick, who had married a husband with such influence, especially in Orlais. This has been her world once, the world of the courtier swanning around grand palaces with her dress leaving a trail of awed spectators as it swept across the floor behind her, while her beauty, her wealth, her power, were encapsulated by the jewels around her neck and furs of her robe.

She had never enjoyed it, had always despised the attention that it brought.

But there was no doubt in her mind that, whether she wanted to be here or not, there should be no question as to _why_. As for him, well, he had run away from his noble life, choosing instead to adventure to far flung corners of Thedas and freeze to death in an ancient, ruinous fortress nestled into the Frostback Mountains.

So why would he be mingling with high society at a ball held by the Empress herself?

She turned to him with a frown of indignation. "Me? I was invited! What are _you_ doing here?"

"What do you mean, you were invited?" He said with a scoff as he rolled his eyes in disbelief.

"I _mean_, I got an invite," she said with a huff as her frustration began to grow. 

As if that were even a question. Why should she _not_ get an invite? Did he not remember who she had once been? How she had frequented these balls year in year out?

Until the seasons had changed, and winter had begun to bite, and her duties had begun to lie elsewhere.

"But who from?" There was urgency in his tone and in his glare, and with that urgency, came a flush of angry red to his cheeks that made his face look almost indistinguishable from his coat and his hair, that she noticed was a little longer than it had been when she had last seen him all of those months ago. 

He had elected to shave, at least, something that he hadn't managed to achieve when she had seen him last. Even with his hair looking slightly, he still looked much smarter than he had done on that mountain side, and much more himself. The clean shaven face, the smart uniform, the pride in his posture, this was the brother that had left Ostwick to attend the Conclave all those months ago.

"Amelie? I need to know. Who invited you?" He asked again with increased impatience and heightened urgency within his tone.

Amelie was completely thrown off of her feet by his questions. One moment, she had been happy to see him, surprised, but happy. The next, she was being interrogated in a dark corner of the Winter Palace, in a corridor that was most definitely out of bounds where they would surely get in trouble if they were spotted.

"Grand Duke Gaspard, if you must know!" She told him with a curt tone that could not disguise the tension that had ebbed its way into every bone, every muscle, every breath.

He paused again, stepping away from her with a frown forming on his face. "Is that a joke?" 

"No! Why would I be joking?" She asked, with her own frustration building.

"Well why would he invite the both of you?" He asked her as he folded his arms across his chest in a manner that came across as sarcastic, cocky, snide.

As always.

“Well excuse you,” she said with a huff. How dare he question why she would be invited to such an event as if he were more deserving of such an honour than herself. “It’s not the first time I would have been in his company, you know!”

She turned away from him with another huff as she too folded her arms across her chest, so that the pair of them now engaged in a standoff where neither of them dared to back down first.

He wanted his answer, she didn’t want to give it to him, she could admit to that.

Why should she? Why should she answer such an obscene question? 

Maker, she’d been here for no more than half an hour and already, she could feel her stress levels rising.

As she moved to avoid his gaze, she turned towards the darkness around them, where she found Claudette, standing awkwardly away from the two of them with her eyes tracing the patterns that had been etched into the ceiling above, while her fingers played with a lock of her chestnut brown hair. She didn’t seem bothered by this, only bored. She probably wasn’t even listening.

Andraste forgive her, she had allowed herself to get frustrated over such a small thing, when she should have been focusing on what was important.

Her sister, keeping her safe, watching her as she took her first steps into the world of high society and watching as the vultures began to descend upon her.

Then there was her brother.

She had been happy to see him, of course. It was a shock, but it was a good one. Then he had come to her with fire in his eyes and desperation in his frantic words, and she had let herself become frustrated, forgetting what mattered the most.

She turned to him again, this time, with a view to study that tension in his brow, that urgency in his stare, that dread in the paleness of his cheeks that had drained now of all colour.

What was this? What was he doing? What was going on?

Why was he even here?

She was annoyed still, perhaps even angry, that he would think to question why they would not be invited to a ball and he would. But the desperation in his eyes told her that there was something serious going on, something she didn't understand, something that went far beyond a rivalry between two siblings who were so close in age.

Perhaps she had been too quick to anger. Perhaps the stress of the ballroom had gotten to her.

Perhaps, just this once, she could back down.

"I don't know,” she said with a sigh of defeat. "The invite came to me. He was a friend of Richards, see, we met a few times. Then I just…" She turned to Claudette, who continued to twirl her hair around her fingers without care.

Should she tell him why they were really here? Should she tell him why their mother had forced her to accept the invitation?

No. Not while Claudette was here.

Perhaps later.

"I just wanted to bring Claudette along with me, for company."

"And I'm so glad she did now that _you're _here too!" Claudette said with a cry of delight and a clap of her hands. “Isn’t it fun, all of us being together again?”

Amelie saw her brother's face soften within seconds. He turned to find her, his eyes scanning the darkness for the shorter of his sisters, who beamed so brightly that the hallway didn't seem quite so dark anymore.

His frown turned to a smile, his desperation turned to relief. 

He lowered his guard, as Amelie watched as Claudette snatched his towering body into a hug that looked so tight that she imagined that Lionel would be struggling to breathe. 

He had been awkward for most of his adulthood – or most of his life, really – always backing away from any physical affection that people wished to inflict upon him, no matter how much he cared for them. There were only a select few that had been awarded that privilege from him.

Not Amelie. She had lost that privilege a long time ago.

That was what happened when you grew up, got married, saw the world for how it really was.

But Claudette was one of those few, if only because she never really gave anyone the choice. She was an unstoppable force, when she wanted to be. If she wanted to hug you, or grab your hand, or wanted to play with your hair or mess around with your dress, then no amount of protestations would be enough to stop her. 

And likewise, her joy was infectious, a reminder that there was some joy in such a cruel world. In that moment, she had reminded them all that they should have been happy to see one another, that bickering in a dark corridor was mindless and silly.

Perhaps she had a kinder heart than Amelie, but then perhaps that was why she was always so keen to be around Claudette.

"It's good to see you, Cee-cee," he managed to say, but his words were strained from a lack of breath, and muffled by the blanket of brown hair that covered his mouth.

"Oh yes I'm so happy to see you too!" She squeezed harder for a second, and it looked as if he was about to burst. But then, mercifully, she released him from her hold, where she held him at arm's length and studied him with narrowed eyes. "And look at you looking all tidy and nice in your fancy uniform! Except your hair, but we can forgive that, I suppose."

Amelie saw him roll his eyes, as a finger rose to the side of his face to smooth down a strand of hair that was sticking up. A memory came back to her, one from long ago, of a camp in the Frostback Mountains. He had been sitting in front of the fire when she had found him, vacant, lost in the intricate dance of the flames that unfolded in front of him. Marks on his face showed where the flames of Haven had touched him, accompanied by the dried up remnants of a stream of blood.

His hair was thicker now, only slightly, as the tendrils of bright red creeped ever closer to those small remnants of Haven' demise.

But the way he acted now, it was as if nothing had ever happened, as if he had been entirely untouched by the flames of Haven, or the explosion of the Conclave, as if he hadn't cheated death twice within the space of a few months.

That was the power of Claudette. It was pure, it was unique, a true rarity in such a harsh, dark world.

"Oh Cee-cee, don't!" He wailed, his earlier tension seemingly forgotten now that Claudette had his attention. "We had this whole debate about getting a barber but Cullen said…"

Amelie froze, stopping mid-beat as she heard him utter that name.

_Cullen_…

How could she have forgotten Cullen?

If her brother was here tonight, then would he be here too? Had he been amongst those Inquisition members clad in a uniform of brilliant red?

She could have laughed, if she hadn't been so nervous at the thought. Because for the life of her, she couldn't imagine Cullen in a place like this, dressed up in such finery. It wouldn't suit him, he was a neat hairline and a clean suit of armour juxtaposed by a scruffy beard and a jagged scar upon his lip. He was not a man for dressing himself in a uniform that was elegant, refined, but entirely impractical. 

But, wait, she _could _imagine it. Cullen, with his armour replaced by a suit of red trimmed with gold, with a high collar that evolved into that jaw that was no longer covered by stubble, but exposed to her gaze by the blade of a sharp razor.

It was a dangerous, dangerous train of thought, that soon spiralled into a memory of that kiss upon his cheeks, how rough the shorn hairs had been that had covered his cold skin, how– 

"Oh that is tragic!" Claudette said with a dramatic gasp that Amelie allowed herself to become distracted by. "I'd probably _die_ without having someone cut my hair. How _did_ you manage to shave by yourself?"

She watched Lionel's face freeze, and she could have sworn that, in spite of the darkness around them, there was a hint of pink on his cheeks. 

Amelie watched, as suddenly, Cullen all but vanished from her mind. She was far more interested in what had caused her brother to become so flustered.

"Well…" He said then, and he was much quieter, much less assured, than he had been before. But he returned to his usual self so quickly that it would have been easy to miss his moment of hesitation, with only a small shake of his head betraying him. "Look I'd love to chat, but I am actually very busy, and I think I need to go and have a little word with the Duke after what you’ve just told me."

“Why?” Amelie asked him with a cool air. Maker, why was he _still_ pursuing this? Was it really so hard to believe that she'd been invited too? 

He only shrugged, with a look that told her everything that she needed to know. His dismissal wasn’t because he didn't know, or didn't care, but because there was something he didn't want to tell her. She knew him better than anybody else, or she thought she did, at least, and she knew that he was a terrible liar.

Why not? Why did he not want to tell her? Was it because he was afraid to do so, scared, perhaps, of telling her something he shouldn't. 

Concern began to erupt from within. Her brows knotted, and her lips pursed, as she frowned up at him even as his eyes drifted away from her own.

When they had spotted one another in the ballroom, there had been fear in his eyes. When he had dragged her into this darkened corridor, there had been urgency in his questioning. And now that the questions had turned on to him, there was discomfort in his stance as he retreated away from her gaze. She knew then that something was wrong, that something was going on behind the scenes, that perhaps it hadn't been coincidence that had led them to meet here.

But Claudette, as usual, did not seem in the least concerned.

"Does it really matter?" Claudette asked with a whine to her voice that told her that she was bored. "We were just invited, that's all."

But Amelie knew better than to be so flippant. After all, coincidences were a rarity in Orlesian society, someone was almost always acting behind the scenes, and it was clear now to her that they had become unwilling participants in someone's else's Game.

“What’s going on?” She all but ignored Claudette and turned back to her brother, taking care to remove the impatience from her tone and instead speaking to him directly, with her eyes searching his own for any trace of an answer.

"I can’t tell you," he told her flatly as he turned away from her stare. "I just want to know whether you being here has anything to do with...with it."

Amelie continued to stare at him, watching him, waiting for him to betray himself. But he never did. Not this time. Corrine Trevelyan had trained her children well in the ways of the Game. He would never give up his secrets, and she knew all too well why that could be.

They were dangerous. They were poisonous. They were life or death.

"Claudette, put your mask back on," Amelie instructed her, and she hoped that the sincerity in her tone would get her to listen. "Let's go and see what Grand Duke Gaspard has to say about all of this."

Claudette was stunned into silence by her command, and shocked into doing exactly what she had been told. 

Good. Amelie had been to enough of these balls to know that something _always_ happened, it just didn't normally happen to her. But with her brother here, anything could happen. The Inquisitor was a figure of interest now, and a target.

That was something she had never really considered until this moment, that with everything that had happened, with all of the power he had been given, he could now be a target for more than just his father's fortune.

But that was how this world worked now, controlled by forces that were beyond her understanding, and she had witnessed with her own eyes what dangers his position had put himself in. As much as she loved him, she was beginning to think that he was not the best person to be around if she was going to stay out of trouble. 

Perhaps once they had found their answer, it would be best to leave him to it – whatever "it" was. 

She had been at Haven when that had fallen, she knew what these people were capable of, and she had to keep Claudette safe. That was her mission, her duty. Keep her safe, look after her, make her happy.

What would her father do to her if she failed in this task? He had been angry when she had come back without his only son. But if anything happened to his favourite daughter? Well, she would likely be disowned, or worse.

So with their faces hidden once again behind their almost masks of silver, they followed Lionel out of the dark corridor and slipped back into the ballroom, which was just as chaotic as it had been when they had left, a strange contrast to the quiet tranquility of the dark corridor. The dancing had started now, leaving a much more sparse crowd gathered upon the upper level, but enough to disguise their entrance back into the ballroom so that, mercifully, no one appeared to notice that they had been out of bounds.

Members of the Inquisition were littered amongst the crowds who were left, and they were the easiest to spot out of anybody with their faces exposed, their postures rigid and firm, and their imposing forms clad in splendid red coats trimmed with gold, with blue silk sashes to compliment them. 

Amelie hid behind her mask as she looked into their faces, the faces of the people who had quickly become friends as they shivered beneath thin layers of canvas on the edge of a never ending mountain range. She never thought that she would see again, she wanted to say hello, to ask them how they had been. But not now, they didn't have time.

She saw Vivienne, sweet, caring, Vivienne. She saw the fierce, immovable Cassandra. She thought she saw Leliana too, but she soon skulked off into the crowd, slipping away and disappearing amongst the mass of courtiers who crowded around the ballroom.

Cullen. Was he here? Where would he be?

She saw Josephine then, beautiful, kind Josephine. She stood on the one side of an imposing figure with a mask that left only a strong, sharp jawline on display. 

She knew that mask, or the arms that it bore, at least; it must be Gaspard de Chalons hiding behind it.

Josephine stood on one side of him, with her brown eyes studying the three of them as they approached. She smiled when she saw Amelie, a friendly, kind smile, but she smiled even more when she saw Claudette standing next to her.

But Amelie didn't smile back. Because behind Gaspard, standing tall and proud in his Inquisition finery, was the man that she thought she would never see again, the one who she had been so convinced would become a fragment of her past, that she had laid bare all of her feelings in a note that she had left upon his mantlepiece.

And she had signed that letter with a kiss upon the cheeks, one that she may never forget.

Oh Maker. Oh no. 

Why did he have to be here? Why did he have to be dressed so...so...smartly.

His cheekbones looked sharper than ever, freed as they were from the thick layer of stubble that had covered them before. His thick blonde hair had been forced into submission in a neat style on top of his head. His eyes, that same warm, golden brown that she had come to know before, shone as they reflected the light of the ballrooms chandeliers.

It had been just as she had imagined only moments before. Despite his slightly rugged appearance before, that smart uniform, that clean shaven jaw, that dignified air, it suited him more than she cared to admit.

Oh Maker. Oh no. 

She hadn’t been prepared to see her brother here, but she certainly hadn’t been prepared to see Cullen.

"Grand Duke Gaspard! Apologies for my absence,," Lionel said in near perfect Orlesian, which was much quicker in tempo even than his already fast speech. It made it hard even for Amelie to understand, and they had had the same teacher. "Do you know my sisters? Lady Amelie Hargrove and Lady Claudette Trevelyan–"

"Ah, yes. Although forgive me for not knowing that Lady Amelie was your sister," Gaspard spoke directly to her, as if her brother wasn't even there.

A slight on her brother’s part, she knew, and so she watched him as his face hardened, his arms folded across his chest, his body stiff, and unmoving. 

Annoyed, she thought at first. But then she noted a finger on his right hand that twitched, as it crept closer to a small gap that had been left when his jacket had been fastened, a button that could have easily been missed.

He wasn’t annoyed. He wasn’t offended at the slight. He was defensive, on guard. Protective.

But on the other side of Gaspard, she saw that same look in Cullen’s eyes. His face mirrored her brother's, firm, hard, albeit less transparent than that of her brother. She could see him watching her even with her peripheral vision restricted by her mask.

It was distracting, seeing him there. But she had to focus. 

Gaspard was talking to her. She couldn’t afford to slip up, to say the wrong thing, in the presence of someone so powerful.

Besides, her brother wanted answers. No, the Inquisition wanted answers.

"Well, how funny that we should have been invited to the same ball, and by the same person, no less," she told the Duke with a polite smile. But she was finding it hard to look at him, not with Cullen hovering behind him with his handsome face capturing the essence of the statues in the garden that had been chiseled out of rough stone. 

Don't look at him. Look at the Duke. Look at Gaspard. 

"But I thank you, of course, for extending your invitation to me," she smiled again, turning her face towards him so that the edges of her mask hid Cullen from view.

"Well, it's been a long time, Marquise," he had her attention within an instant, and all thoughts of Cullen were wiped from her mind within an instant. 

Marquise. That was a title that she hadn't heard for a long, long time.

It was one that didn't belong to her, and it never really had. It had been borrowed for a time, only to be returned to its rightful owner when her husband had passed on from this world.

"I'm afraid I'm not a Marquise anymore," she said without even thinking, without even considering that this was Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, and she was only a Lady now.

She would have apologised, if only out of politeness, but he got there first.

"Ah. Forgive me, Lady Amelie," he said, although with his expression hidden behind his mask, she had no idea how sincere his apology had been. That was the point of the masks, after all, beyond the obscene pagenty and extravagance that they had become such a fundamental part of. "We haven't seen each other since Richard died, have we?"

_Of course we haven't_, she wanted to say. Because why would they have done? Why would any of Richard's friends been interested in seeing her? 

"No, I don't think we have," she said eventually with a smile that was strained, but polite, and composed.

"No, that's a shame," she couldn't see his face, but she presumed that he hadn't meant it. "How have you been since he passed? You had a daughter, didn't you? Emilie?"

Amelie's heart stopped beating, the breath taken out of her.

Beside her, she heard her brother make a noise under his breath that sounded like he had just caught his toe on the leg of a chair.

Her eyes bore into the holes of Gaspard's mask.

Emilie. _Emilie_. 

He may not have known Adelaide. He may not have really known Amelie all too well, either. But if he knew Richard, then he would know Emilie.

_Emilie_.

How could he not know Emilie? Richard had never stopped talking about her, never stopped saying how beautiful she had been, how graceful, how elegant, how kind.

Gaspard would have known. If he had remembered Amelie, then he would have remembered _her._

So why had he dared to say her name? 

She knew why. It was a means to get her frustrated, angry, to make her lower her guard, to expose her weaknesses, the chinks in her armour.

And it worked.

"Adelaide," she said quickly, and she was suddenly grateful that her face was covered by a mask. Because there was fire in her eyes and a snarl on her lips, and it took all of her energy to summon even that single word.

"Ah yes, of course," Gaspard said with a nod of his head. But before he could say anything else, Lionel mercifully interjected.

Thank the Maker.

"Sorry to interrupt the pair of you," he said with a lurch towards Gaspard that put Amelie out of his trajectory. "But I am afraid that I must discuss some Inquisition business with my advisors and, well, we don't want to hog your attention for the entire evening, do we?"

It was incredible how easy it was for him to get the Duke to disperse, with only a small farewell uttered to Amelie, and the smallest of bows, before he left them to speak to someone else. But then again, he probably enjoyed talking to Amelie just as much as she had enjoyed talking to him.

That was, not at all.

It hadn't been so bad until...

“So, Inquisitor,” Josephine said then with a heavy sigh as she threw a frown in the direction of her brother. "Turns out, we could have just _asked your sister_ to get us an invite?”

His eyes shifted uncomfortably away from Josephine’s. “Well, I guess so…”

Josephine’s eyes were filled with horror. “But Leliana...she…”

“Best not to think about that now, Josie-jo!” Lionel said quickly with an uncomfortable smile and a wave of his hand. “Anyway, we’d better get moving, plenty of work to be done.”

“Work?” Amelie asked the pair of them. Her tone was curt, strained, even. Maker, this evening was already turning out to be stressful.

“Well yeah, Amy, we aren’t here for a laugh, you know,” Lionel rolled his eyes at her, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

He always had done that, a defence mechanism, perhaps. 

But she had been at Haven. She knew that what they called "work", was often dangerous, and she wanted to stay as far away from that danger as possible.

“Something is happening here, isn’t it? Something’s going on,” she insisted, making sure to add a hint of urgency to her tone as she did so.

There was only a short stand off this time, a brief moment where they stared one another down and waited for the other to give in.

But time was ticking. Somewhere, a bell tolled. The dancers vacated the ballroom below accompanied by a round of applause, as a troupe of ballet dancers swarmed into the pit.

Time was her friend, not his. She had all the time in the world to play games. He did not.

“Yes, there is,” he admitted to her after some deliberation. His expression was pained, his hands nervously fingering the neat carpet of red hair that grew around his ears. “But I can’t tell you what it is.”

Amelie understood. “Of course not.”

This was just how life was for them now, she had learnt that when she had travelled to Haven all those months ago. 

He wasn’t just her brother anymore, he was so much more than that now. The more people who followed him, worshipped him, heralded his name, the more the threats, the danger, the figures in the shadows, only got greater.

Defeated, she sighed. “Stay safe though, will you?”

He turned to her with what appeared to be surprise. 

“Me?” A smile appeared on his face, a sheepish one. “Yeah, of course I will. So long as you both stay out of trouble too.”

“Us?” Claudette piped up seemingly out of nowhere, and Amelie turned to find her exhibing a faux surprise. “It’s you that’s always getting in trouble, not us!”

Lionel laughed even more, a hearty chuckle that mirrored the glee within Claudette’s warm eyes. “Point taken."

She wished she could laugh with them, but there existed within her an overwhelming swell of fear that rose up from the depths of her heart.

Trouble. That was one word to describe it.

Last time she had seen her brother, it hadn’t been too long after they had all thought he was dead. Claudette didn’t know about that, neither did the rest of the family. She had thought it best not to tell them.

That was yet another secret that weighed heavy upon her heart, and that was why Amelie couldn’t bring herself to laugh in the way that he had. That was why she found it so difficult to say goodbye to him.

“We’ll catch up later, OK?” He promised them, but Amelie found it very hard to hold faith in that promise.

What if they didn’t? What if he didn’t come back? Just like before…

It was hard to see him walk away, it was hard to see him disappear into the crowds, where it was only his outrageously tall frame and his obscenely red coat that made him at all visible to her, until he eventually disappeared from sight, and Amelie was left with that sense of fear festering within the depths of her heart.

She should have just stayed at home, where her life was dull and uneventful save for the arguments with Adelaide. 

_Adelaide_. A wave of anger rose up from deep inside of her as she thought about the daughter that she had once again left behind, who had never even stepped foot in high society and yet, was being used as a pawn in someone else’s game. How dare Gaspard use her in such a way...

“Amelie?” Claudette called to her with a sing-song voice that contrasted viciously with the terror in her heart. If only she could be as innocent as Claudette. “What do we do now?”

She turned to her, and she saw that familiar sweet smile and that warmth in her eyes, and the worry, the fear, the dread, that had coursed through her veins, began to subside.

Claudette, with her ever contagious joy, her superpower; thank the Maker she had invited her here.

“Well, we could go and see what the buffet is like?” Amelie suggested to her after some thought, and the joy in Claudette’s eyes only grew.

That was one thing they had in common: their appreciation for food. You wouldn’t notice it on Claudette though, she was slight, if not overly petite. She wasn’t as thin as Jennifer, nor as short, but she was nowhere as tall or broad as Amelie, who always felt like a giant when she stood beside either of them.

So it was a good suggestion, one which suited them both, and for the first time that night, Amelie found herself getting excited. She hoped they had those nice desserts with the strawberry filling, she had always loved those.

“Amelie?”

A voice called out to her that she didn’t immediately recognise. It was deep, and somewhat raspy, almost strained, as if the owner had put too much effort into forcing them out of their lips.

Then a memory resurfaced, or rather, a collection of them. The snow beneath her feet, glistening in the light of the two moons. A coat made of weather worn leather, which smelt like a moss covered forest that had been pummelled by a torrent of rain. Tears shed onto the shoulder of a stranger, and words penned on a piece of parchment loaned by the ever sweet Josephine.

Amelie turned slowly to find the man who she had forgotten was even there, lost as she was in the frustration at Gaspard, and the concern for her brother. But there he was, still standing in that exact same spot she had first spotted him, as if he had been frozen to the spot, unable to move even as time had passed around him, and people had come and gone, and conversations had passed him by.

Cullen. He had been there the whole time, watching the war of words between herself and Gaspard that she had lost so painfully.

And now he spoke, with his voice quiet, almost breathless, as his fingers grasped at the back of his neck and fidgeted with the collar of his coat.

He had called to her, and she heard it, and as her eyes found his, he did so again.

"Amelie?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like ages since last uploading! But worth it because this was a looong chapter so hope you enjoyed and see you all again next time! Also i do keep people up to date on my twitter and tumblr pages if i'm running late or having a week like this week which has been long lol. I'm @inqsmabari on both of those platforms if you want to find me! Anyway come back next time for awkward idiots talking to each other!


	20. Golden Eyes and Silver Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie had hoped to find some enjoyment at the masquerade, but with so many things happening at once, the Inquisition, the meddling of Gaspard, that may have to wait. Now, she stands in the presence of Cullen, the man she hasn't seen for some months, and who she left at Skyhold with nothing but a letter signed with a kiss.

"Amelie?"

She had known he could have been here. She had known that almost as soon as she had seen her brother in the centre of the ballroom. And yet, hearing that voice, the one that she had last heard in that dark, drafty, office in Skyhold, caught her off guard, stopping her heart from beating, her lungs from drawing breath, as a pressure began to build upon her chest.

Try as she might, she could not get herself to release the breath she had been holding. She was frozen to the spot and she couldn't do anything about it, drowning as she was beneath the weight of a hundred worries and a thousand fears.

He was here. Maker, he was here.

What was she going to do?

"Amelie?" 

She turned with all the speed and ferocity of a clap of lightning as someone else called out her name. This new voice was sweet, kind, gentle, a far cry from the deep, husky tones of the man whose eyes had captured her within a sea of gold. 

Claudette. She was an island on the far horizon of a once endless sea, a place which she could retreat to, an escape. She found her, allowed herself to become caught in her gaze, as the light within her sister's hazel green eyes brought her heart back into motion, brought rhythm back to her failing breath, and brought some clarity back to her once scrambled mind.

And as her breath began to slow, as her heart began to beat once again, she sighed, deeply, heavily, and with resignation.

She couldn't escape now. She couldn't run. 

He had found her. 

"Sorry, Claudette, I won't be a moment." She turned back to Cullen, but as she did so, her breath soon became hitched, her heart beat rising, her mind filing with the memories of their short time together. Haven, the mountain camp, Skyhold, it had all come back to her.

But the call from Claudette had focused her mind, had dampened her fear. She could control herself, she had to. She had to be composed, measured, graceful.

Because she was being watched, by the very woman she had promised to protect. Claudette couldn’t know, she couldn’t know what had happened. She could not face either of her siblings finding out what had happened, what she had done.

"Cullen, how nice to see you again," she said with a smile that was as close to a mask of composure as she could hope to muster. 

But the problem was, Cullen had stripped her of her mask all of those weeks ago, when she had released her pain, her grief, her heartache, in a stream of tears that dampened his coat and melted the snow at their feet. She didn’t know why, but she was weak when she was around him, exposed to a myriad of emotions that she didn’t understand, who’s meanings she couldn’t pinpoint.

Whenever she saw him, she drowned her in a sea of emotions, thoughts, feelings, that she didn't understand, and it took every fibre of her being to compose herself now.

But she had to. This was not the time, the place.

Thank the Maker she had her mask.

"Yes! Yes, it’s...it’s nice to see you too,” he said to her as she watched a tide of red blossom on his freshly shaven cheeks. It had obviously been a mandate for the Inquisition members to look as smart as possible. But now that his cheeks were clear from stubble, she found herself staring at him even more closely, following the line of his scar and making note of every mark, every freckle, every scratch that had drawn themselves upon his pale skin.

She couldn’t help but mirror him as she too turned a brilliant shade of pink. But where his shame could be seen in little more than a light flush upon his cheeks and neck, her skin burned viciously on every inch of the skin of her face.

It was getting far too warm in here, she needed to get out of here, before she embarrassed herself.

She needed to breathe. 

“I should–” she waved to the room behind, her eyes searching for a reason that could justify an escape. 

She needed to go. She didn't want to be rude to him. She didn't want to upset him. And the Maker knew how much she wanted to talk to him, how she wanted to ask about that letter.

But she couldn’t. Her throat was closing up, her heart was racing, sweat beaded at her brow.

She needed to breathe. She needed to go. She needed air.

But he was determined not to let her.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again, Amelie,” he exploded in front of her eyes, with the burn on his cheeks deepening while a stray hand found the back of his neck. “Sorry, I just mean...when you left, and you left that…”

“It’s OK!” She insisted quickly, before he had a chance to finish his sentence and reveal her shameful secret. “Yes, it was a nice surprise to see you all here, I will admit.”

Maker, had she just said it was "nice" to see him? Oh Maker, oh no…

But it _was_ nice to see him, it really was. She was just...she just…

She was confused. She was taken aback. She was...

“You look...um...your dress, it’s nice,” he said then seemingly out of nowhere.

Maker, what did he just say?

She could have sworn that Claudette snickered beneath her breath, but she chose to ignore her, turning away from the scrutiny of both of their gazes as her cheeks burned even more fiercely.

“Thank you,” she mumbled beneath her breath. 

Maker, what was he doing here? What was _she_ doing here?

She should have escaped long ago. She should have run, and hid, from the feelings that welled up from inside her at the sight of the man she had...she had…

What had she felt for him? It wasn't love, it couldn't be. She barely knew him.

Was it companionship? Appreciation? 

Affection?

No. It couldn't be. 

Could it?

He had been kind to her, and she had thanked him in that letter she had left upon his mantelpiece. 

But what else had she said in that letter? What other thoughts and feelings had spilled out on to that parchment as she wrote in the pale light of the moons?

She dared not think about it. She couldn't think about it.

“Well, I think I should, you know, get back to work,” he said then with an awkward breathy chuckle as he waved his hand in the opposite direction. “But it was...well...really great to see you, Amelie. I mean it.”

It...was?

The world turned a shade darker as he turned away from her.

He was reluctant to leave, she could see it in the way his shoulders slumped, the way his crooked smile faded, the way in which his eyes dimmed to a dull shade of brown that was more akin to a forest floor than a pool of molten gold.

Without his gaze, she suddenly felt lost, dismayed, void of the man who could cause her heart to dance as excitedly as the courtiers on the dancefloor below. 

“Wait!” 

The anguish in her heart burst forth into a cry that shocked even her.

Time lurched forward. Cullen came to an abrupt stop, his entire body freezing at her command.

He turned, slowly, at first, and then his feet brought him back to her, his eyes searching her own as he stood closer to her than he had done before.

"Yes?" He asked her, as she witnessed the colour drain from the cheeks that had once burned so brilliantly red.

He waited. Patiently, at least.

But she didn't know what to say.

She knew what she _wanted_ to say. She wanted to talk to him about before, about the camp, about Skyhold. 

Her letter. She wanted to ask if he had read it, if he had understood, how he had felt when she had left that kiss upon his cheek.

“Can I just...” She began, but the heat emanating from her persistently burning cheeks was getting to be too much for her to handle.

She felt weak, light-headed. She needed air…

But she needed to know. She _needed _to.

"I...um…" she tried again, but words failed her. 

She turned away, her breath escaping from her in a heavy sigh. She found Claudette, who watched her with a knowing smile creeping out from underneath her mask.

Maker, she had to compose herself. This wasn't the time, or the place. 

Her siblings couldn't know what had happened, how she had felt. How she _still _felt.

She had to think of something to ask, something _normal_. Nothing to do with mountain camps or letters or kisses on–

"So, what are you all doing here?" She asked quickly.

She kicked herself internally for her deflection. She had wanted to know how he felt, she really did. She had wanted to know whether he too suffered from an overwhelming flood of emotions every time he looked upon her.

But she didn’t have the heart to ask. 

She was afraid. She was scared of what he would say. 

But what she was more scared of, perhaps, was the idea that he could feel the same way. Because what would she do then? 

“I...um…” he looked bemused at her outburst, and could she blame him? “Did your brother say anything to you?”

She shook her head and bit at the skin of her lip.. “No, just that there was..._something_,” 

“Ah, right,” he said with a clear of his throat. His back straightened, while a stern countenance passed over his face, his golden amber eyes turning a dull, steely brown that was almost black. “Well, in that case, I don’t think I should say anything myself. There must be a reason why he didn’t want you to know and, well, I have to respect that.”

_Respect_. That was a word that she would never have expected to hear come from Cullen’s lips when they spoke about her brother. When she had first met him, he had been as cold as the thick blanket of snow that held Haven in its grip. But then again, how long ago had that been? How long ago was it that she had left Skyhold, and planted that kiss upon his cold cheek?

Months. It could take a month to travel home, perhaps even more if the Waking Sea was being unforgiving.

It had been months since she had seen her brother, even longer for Claudette.

Maker, could they not have met in better circumstances? 

As for Cullen, she would love to talk to him again, laugh with him, perhaps even play that game of chess that he had suggested to her on that night in the mountain camp. She always seemed to be at ease when she was around him, and she couldn’t help but want to be in his presence even though he made her feel so conflicted, confused.

But not here. They couldn’t talk here. Not with Claudette trailing at her heels. 

She didn’t want them to know. She didn’t want her siblings knowing what she had done, or how she had felt. Maker, even _she_ didn’t fully understand her feelings when she was with him. Was it friendship? Was it respect, as he now held for her brother?

Or was it something more?

“That’s OK," she told him as she shook the thoughts from her head. She needed to go before she embarrassed herself, before she betrayed herself to the watching eyes of her sister, and the court. "Forgive me, I won't take up any more of your time."

She had hoped that he would let her leave with little more than a courteous goodbye, and that that would be all, that the two would part and no one would know how she had almost betrayed herself with that stupid letter.

But she would not be let off so lightly.

"There's nothing to forgive, Amelie. It was good to see you again, it really was."

Her heart skipped a beat. Then, suddenly, it caught up with her all at once, racing to recover the moments that it had lost with such ferocity that she was almost swept off of her feet by the pressure that swelled from her chest.

And that smile that he gave her, that one that was twisted by an angry scar near the corner of his lips, almost brought her to her knees.

He turned and he left, with perhaps no idea of what he had done to her, and in his absence, her heart ached. Even as the neat blonde hair on the top of his head disappeared from view, and there was no longer any trace of him within the bustling crowds that swarmed about the palace, she ached, burned, as a fire erupted from deep inside of her that was more ferocious even than the anger that Gaspard’s words had sparked within her.

What was it about Cullen that made her feel like this? What was it that she even felt?

Shame? Embarrassment at what she had done? 

Or was it fondness? An affection? Perhaps even more?

"Oh Andraste's beautiful long blonde hair…" Claudette said, as Amelie turned to find her staring at her with her mouth agape. "What was THAT?"

Amelie cleared her throat as she brought a hand to her thundering chest. "What was what?”

"That! Him!" Claudette cried out just a little too loudly as she moved to point in the direction that Cullen had left them in. "Who is he?"

"He’s…” Amelie shot forward to block her arm before she could extend it. "No one. It was just...that was…"

Who was he? He was a man that she barely knew, who she had spoken to only on a few rare occasions within a few weeks of her entire life. He was no one to her, really.

But that wasn’t true. He had helped her in Haven, looked out for her, and their brother. He was kind, beneath a prickly exterior. He was caring, when he endeavoured to be. 

And he was handsome. Maker, he was handsome…

She had thought so before, when she had seen him at Haven in his gleaming armour finished with a collar of thick fur, with flakes of snow entangled in his thick locks of golden hair. She had thought so too in the mountain camp when he had looked far less composed, during a moment of downtime when she had entered his tent and his toned, battle scarred chest had been exposed to the night air.

But now, well, she had seen another side to him, one that had been pruned and polished and presented to the highest of standards. His hair was neat and tidy, his jawline had been shorn of its blanket of dark stubble. And that jacket. Maker, that jacket. It refined that clean shaven jawline with its high collar, and it brought out the streaks of gold in his hair, and in his eyes, with a deep red colour offset with a rich blue sash, and the line of gold that ran along its seams.

He was undeniably, and unapologetically, handsome. She had thought so before, if a little rough around the ages. But tonight, with the light of thousands of candles dancing within those gentle brown eyes, he was more handsome than she had ever seen him. 

It made her weak. It made her breathless. It made her burn brighter than the golden sun of Orlais.

"Amelie???" Claudette prodded incessantly at the sleeve of her dress. "Helloooooo? Are you still with us?"

"No one," she blurted out so violently that her whole body had shuddered with the effort. "He's no one. No one interesting, anyway. Just someone I met last time, when I went to Haven."

"Riiiiiiight," she couldn't see Claudette's face, hidden as it was behind her silver mask, but she could imagine how it would look.

She was suspicious, of course she was. Amelie was a rubbish liar. They all were.

But she could be thankful, at least, that the burning skin of her cheeks were hidden behind a mask, and that she had worn the dress her mother had picked out for her with the neckline that was almost at her chin.

No one could see that her cheeks had reddened, that her skin had burst in to flame; they had been ever since Cullen had first called her name.

It was hot in here, all of a sudden. Maker, she needed some air...

"So anyway," Claudette said with a shrug of her shoulder. That was one thing about Claudette: she may love the gossip and the intrigue, but she also got bored very quickly. Amelie was very grateful for that right now. "Should we go and find that buffet you mentioned? I’m kind of hungry."

She would have loved to have said yes. After all, she felt as if she could have eaten an entire tray of those tiny marzipan fancies that Orlesians liked to present at these balls. But her hunger had become a secondary need. 

Sweat gathered upon her burning skin, and her heart seemed to be beating at double speed. She felt light headed, queasy. It was silly of her, to become so feeble at the sight of a man she had only spoken to perhaps a handful of times.

But he was so handsome, and he had taken such good care of her and, Maker, no one had ever made her feel so many raw, unadulterated emotions all at once.

She was anything but hungry. She didn't need food. She didn't need more polite conversation with people like Gaspard who would seek to bring up a past that she would rather forget. She was hot. She was dizzy. She was fighting a battle with her heart as it threatened to burst out of her chest, and she was losing.

She needed air. She needed to escape. 

"Sorry, Claudette, do you mind if I meet you there?" Amelie asked her with a voice strained by turmoil. "I'd just like to get some air first."

The smile fell from Claudette’s lips. "Oh...alright.”

A pang of guilt erupted within her, but she was so preoccupied with controlling her rapid breaths and the violent pulses of her heart that she hardly even felt it. And so she left her, the sister she should have been looking out for. But she couldn’t look out for her now, anyway, not with that fire that continued to rage throughout every corner of her body.

She would escape for a little while, compose herself. Then, she would find her, and they would have fun, as promised. 

It would all be about her again. They would scour the ballroom in search of notable bachelors, and she would find a dance partner who would sweep her off of her feet and who cared for her as if she was their whole world. And in his presence, she may even feel like Amelie felt with Cullen.

If that was really how she felt about him.

She marched towards the nearest door that she could find, the air in the palace becoming cooler, lighter, less oppressive, less suffocating, as she approached a courtyard that was open to guests.

As she walked out in to the moonlight, the flames that licked at the strings of her heart became less pronounced, compromised. 

She could breathe again. 

The courtyard was peaceful, quiet, a far cry from the ballroom she had left behind. 

All of her worries were inside, and she was not. She could be at peace.

But there was a worry within her still, one that ate away at her tranquility. 

Claudette. She shouldn't have left her alone. If her father found out what she had done, he would probably disown her, or worse. 

But she had to. She couldn't describe it, or even understand why, but everything had just become...too much. The shock at seeing her brother, the anger at Gaspard, the tension that she had felt in the presence of Cullen

She traded the music, and dancing, and masks of gold and silver, for a moment of peace and quiet. She turned away from the palace, out towards the city of Halamshiral where, somewhere beyond its walls, her villa stood waiting for her. 

She shouldn't have left her villa. She shouldn't have left Ostwick.

She could be at home, eating strawberries with her daughter or drinking tea in the garden with Jennifer. She could argue with Adelaide about her breakfast, and she could talk to Jennifer as if the Conclave had ever happened, as if everything was normal again, as if there were no secrets to hide from anyone.

But she couldn’t go back. The sands of time could not be reversed, no matter how much she may want them to. She wanted that simpler life, the one she had had before, where they all lived in peace, and where she had never met Cullen, had never fallen for him.

It would be so much simpler, so much easier. But she couldn’t have that, no matter how much she wanted this. This was the world that she was living in. The one where the world threatened to end, where her brother was gone, living another life, and where his quest had led her into the path of Cullen. 

And now she was here, already drowning in the depths of Orlais' poisoned chalice when the night had barely even begun.

But some good had come of this night. She had seen her brother after so long, and Josephine, and she had caught a glimpse of Vivienne too.

But then Gaspard had struck a dagger into her heart, a dagger seeped with poison that crept into her veins and. _Emilie_. How dare he? No wonder she felt so ill.

And then she had seen Cullen. He had spoken to her only briefly, but his words had caused a storm to brew within her mind as he reminded her of how he made her feel, of what she had done.

But then...he hadn't mentioned it, the letter. 

Perhaps he hadn't read it. Perhaps he had thought nothing of her kiss on the cheeks. Perhaps he had just shrugged her off and continued on with his busy life, and she had worried all this time about nothing.

_Don’t be silly, Amelie_. He hadn't mentioned it because _she_ hadn't asked. She hadn't had the courage to. She was weak when she was around him, conflicted, confused.

If she wanted the answer to what troubled her, if she wanted to know how he felt, then she needed to find her courage, her strength. 

Except she had no idea how she felt, even.

The night was crisp and cool, as a breeze carried with it the melodic tones of an Orlesian bard and rustled through the skirts of her dress.

It dampened the fire that burned throughout every inch of Amelie's skin, if only a little.

She could take her mask off, expose her burning cheeks to the gentle caress of the breeze. 

_What if people saw?_

But she couldn't bring herself to care. Not after everything.

She tore the mask off of her head and allowed herself a brief moment of respite. Her eyes came to a close, almost by instinct, as her mind focused on the sensation of the cool air against the skin of her cheeks.

Her heart rate slowed, as she tuned into the sound of the bard whose serenade formed an elegant duet with the trickle of water that stemmed from the top of a fountain.

People talked, mostly in whispers. She understood most of it, but her Orlesian was a little rusty. She had had little cause to use it after her husband had died, or perhaps even longer ago than that. She never came to Orlais if she could help it.

But she wasn't trying to understand, she just wanted to listen, to fill her mind with the sound of song, and trickling water, and the buzz of conversation, so that she had no more space to think of what awaited her in the palace.

She'd have to go back in at some point, she knew. But for now, she was at peace, if only for a moment.

But as she listened, as her heart rate slowed and her breaths became more measured, she noticed something strange.

Someone spoke in the common tongue. It juxtaposed the dulcet tones of the rhythmic Orlesian chatter around them with its harsh intonations and abrupt words. But the words themselves were not harsh. The tone was not. Neither were the accents, the long drawn out vowels and the emphasis on every syllable told her that the owners of those tongues were nobility.

_"...silk scarves…" _

She turned ever so slightly towards them, spurred on both by curiosity, and by a desire to tune in to the words of another to bury the thoughts that had been plaguing her mind.

"_...a dance that will really shock them…"_

Her breath caught in her throat. She recognised that voice, she knew it. But her mind couldn't conjure up an image of who it belonged to.

Should she turn and look? No, that would be too obvious. If she was going to eavesdrop on these innocent strangers, she should at least don her mask.

After all, wasn't that the point of wearing them?

She heard a new voice speak: _"Is that a promise?" _

Amelie's heart skipped a beat.

She knew that voice. It was unmistakable. It was a voice she had known for her entire life, one that she had heard so often that she could pick it out of a room full of chattering strangers in an instant. It was her brother's lilted tones, his noble man's drawl, with that self-satisfied inflection that he placed upon every other word.

There could be no mistaking it.

But what was he talking about? And to whom?

She had to look. She had to see.

She put the mask back on her face and turned back towards the palace, her eyes scanning the crowd who had gathered in small clusters around the fountain. 

But even with her peripheral vision so limited, he wasn't hard to find, a towering beacon of brilliant red that stood tall amidst a crowd of silver and gold masks.

His face was exposed to the world, and so had his heart been exposed to her, as she watched him lean down to tilt the chin of the man next to him until their lips were inches apart.

_"I never disappoint," _she heard him say, a gentle assertion that would have been drowned out by the babble around her had she not been so focused upon the movement of his lips.

But he never went there, he never crossed that boundary, never took that leap across the ever narrowing chasm that separated him.

He just dropped his hold upon that man's chin, and turned towards the shadows.

Amelie watched him leave, as did Dorian.

But not for the same reasons, she imagined.

While he burned with passion, Amelie smouldered with rage. A fire had sparked within her when she stood in the presence of Grand Duke Gaspard, and it had burned through every ounce of her composure until she had been left raw.

And then Cullen had found her. The fire that burned inside became a smoulder of desire, a feeling that she didn't fully understand. 

Since she had arrived, she had been consumed by fire. But now, that fire was stronger than ever.

She remembered that Tuesday in her garden, when the sun had been high in the sky and the tea in her cup had been bitter but soothing. Jennifer had asked her a lot of questions that she hadn't answered, desperate as she was to keep the secrets that had gnawed at her conscience.

But she had done it. He had never asked her to, not as such, but he had assured her that what she had seen had been nothing of importance, that it didn't matter, that she could trust him.

Perhaps he had thought she would never see him again. Perhaps he had thought he could hide it. 

No. He could not. Not from her.

The fire inside her burned brighter.

No. He had lied. _It's nothing,_ he had told her. 

And it had been a lie.

She burned. She seethed. She filled with anger.

Dorian turned to look at her, with a boldness in his eyes that told her that he had known she was watching. 

With that look, he challenged her, dared her, waited to see if she would act.

She did. With that fire burning ever brighter, she leapt, she pounced, tearing her way through the garden and leaving a trail of smouldering ash behind her.

She became faced with the onslaught of a breeze that rattled against the metal of her mask and rippled through the skirts of her dress. 

Her fire had been dampened, if only for a moment.

The bard continued to play, people continued to talk, gossiping amongst themselves.

Did they gossip about her brother? About what he had done?

Behind her, someone cleared their throat.

She turned, almost by instinct, jumping out of her skin even as the fire bolstered her countenance and strengthened her determination. 

She was greeted by a man she did not want to see, the one who had captured her brothers attentions and earned himself such a show of devotion even in front of the entire court.

_It's nothing. _She had been assured, but the smug grin that escaped from beneath his extravagant moustache told her otherwise. 

The pride in his eyes, the daring in his confident stare, they only made that fire burn brighter. 

He challenged her, and she accepted.

Turning on her heel, she marched off, leaving the self-satisfied Dorian to his smug airs as she left the peace and tranquility of the palace garden behind her, with that fire burning ever brighter within her heart.

But night had gathered, and Amelie, consumed by her anger, paid no attention to where she was heading as she left the dimly lit garden behind, and crossed beneath a veranda that drenched her in shadow.


	21. The Moonlit Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beneath the light of Thedas' moons, Amelie witnessed a betrayal of her brother's word, and with the stress of the ball getting to her, this may have been the final straw.

The garden was shrouded in darkness, nestled as it was in the very heart of the palace where it was all but hidden from the light of Thedas' twin moons. 

Except for the fountain, that damned fountain.

It was dazzling in its opulence, as brilliant as the grand chandelier that sat above the ballroom and rained light upon the dancers below. And just like that chandelier, Amelie couldn't help but find her gaze drawn to it, entranced by the trickle of moonlit waters and hypnotised by its beauty.

She wished it had been otherwise, that the fountain had been dull and uninteresting. Then perhaps she would not have been drawn to this garden, to the peace and tranquility it had offered to her. Then, she would not have witnessed what had happened there, in a corner of the garden untouched by the reflection of the moon from those ever flowing waters.

It had been a delicate move that perhaps would have gone unnoticed by the majority of people here; she may not have even noticed herself had she not heard her brothers whispers in the dark.

But she did. She had seen it, she had noticed.

And it was clear to her what it had meant. 

She had kept her brothers secret, for all of those months since she had left Skyhold, even as she had faced an interrogation from the wife he had left behind, from the woman who was as much of a sister as Claudette, and one of the only true friends Amelie had.

She had kept his secret, and she had been happy to. Because she trusted him. When he had brushed her questions aside and dismissed her concerns, she had trusted him.

It was nothing, he had insisted, a game, just like the one that all of the noble lords and ladies who attended this ball played. It was one she didn't approve of, one she would never dare to play herself. But that was how he was, how he always had been; playing with fire was a passtime of his.

It was nothing, he had told her, and she had trusted him. After all, was it not just like her silly infatuation with Commander Cullen? A mere flight of fancy born in the wake of Haven's fall?

Wasn’t it?

She knew very little of the pursuits of the heart, she could admit that. She couldn't say that she had ever loved anyone, had ever felt any affection that went beyond the call of duty. Any outward signs of happiness in the presence of her husband had been nothing more than an elaborate mask worn in the presence of society, one which showed the rest of the world what they wanted to see.

But she knew enough that she could see it in the way they had stood with one another, the way they watched each other, held each other, in the briefest of caresses even as they stood in the heart of a palace filled with vipers with curious eyes and poisoned hearts. It was, she somehow knew, that same the feeling that she had struggled to put into words, the one that caused her heart to burst within her chest and left her struggling for breath whenever Cullen was near.

Cullen...did she?

No, Amelie. Don't think about him. Not now.

This was about her brother, about his betrayal of her trust, his _lie_.

Perhaps it _was_ nothing, as he had said. Perhaps she should trust him, as she had done before. Perhaps she was overreacting, it wouldn’t be the first time.

But she knew her brother, she had known him all of her life, for 27 years. He had never been one for physical affection, not once the burdens of adulthood had fallen upon his shoulders. There were only a select few that he had ever dared to share such a coveted prize with. Amelie had lost that privilege a long time ago.

But this man, this _Dorian, _a stranger who he barely knew, someone who had only been in his life for a few months at most, had somehow managed to worm his way into his favours and win a place at his side.

She was a little bit jealous, she would admit, but she was also angry. He had promised her it was nothing, and she had kept his secret even as Jennifer had sat in front of her, lying through her teeth as she told her that everything was fine.

It wasn't. It wasn't fine.

Dorian's eyes had been that final betrayal of their true feelings. The way he had watched her, dared her, challenged her to find fault with what they had done.

And she had accepted his challenge, because how could she not? This was her brother, Jennifer was a sister to her.

And she had lied for him, that much was clear now. 

She hated lying.

So she marched in the direction that she had seen him vacate the garden, spurned on by a fire that raged within her heart, as she left that garden behind her and turned her sights towards the shadows at the far edge of the garden.

There was a veranda here that hid the palace above her from view, and herself from them. Steeped in shadow, and hidden from the perpetual glow of the fountain’s moonlit waters, his was one of those corners of the palace she would never dare to tread in normal times, preferring instead the rooms filled with courtiers and lit by an army of flickering candles. 

The ballroom was busy and loud, and there were far too many people there for her liking. But it was better than this. She didn't like the dark very much, not normally. But in that moment, she had forgotten her fear.

She felt only anger, frustration, rage.

_Maker!_

The outer wall of the garden came upon her seemingly out of nowhere, hidden as it was in a shroud of darkness. She had reached the end, and yet, Lionel was nowhere to be seen/.

She looked left. She looked right. But she was met only with darkness. 

Maker, where could he have gone?

There was a hint of the garden from beyond the veil of shadow, the singing of the minstrel, the gossiping of courtiers, the trickling of those iridescent waters.

Had she gone the wrong way? But she was so sure that he had come this way...

She sighed, defeated, her anger ebbing somewhat as a cool breeze rippled at her skirts.

Maybe she should turn back, leave him to– 

_Maker!_

The world closed in around her. Her breath was constricted, her throat contracting, closing in. She fell backwards, the ground giving away beneath her as she fell into the arms of the one who had stolen her breath from her.

She couldn't breathe, he collar of her dress cutting viciously into the skin of her neck. She couldn't see, restricted by the mask that hid her face from her assailant, and them from her. She couldn't move, couldn't turn to see who had taken ahold of her, couldn’t try to escape.

A shiver creeped down her back, emanating from the sudden sensation of a cold, metal object brushing against the skin of her neck.

Maker, no. 

She was trapped, in a corner of the Winter Palace that was steeped in shadow. 

No one would see her, hear her. No one would even know she had gone.

Maker, what had she gotten herself in to?

A voice whispered in her ear, raspy and seeped with poison. "You have 10 seconds to tell me who you are and why you're following me," 

Except, she knew that voice. She knew who it was. It was a voice she had heard not too long before, one which had stood out so boldly amongst all of the rest with its familiar lilted tones and it’s haughty, teasing air.

She knew. She had to do something, _say_ something. But she fought against a grasp that tightened around the collar of her dress, and a cold piece of metal which threatened to cut through her delicate skin.

But she _had_ to. Maker, she _had_ to.

"Its me! Its me!" She said quickly with words that were little more than a series of raspy, frantic whispers. "It’s your sister, Amy!"

The pressure on her throat eased, the metal on her neck removed, the grasp on her arms released.

She fled, her trembling hands instinctively found the area where her collar met her neck, as if she expected to find a mark, a trace of the moment when her breath had left her.

She didn't of course. He would never have dared, she hoped. But the fear, the panic, the horror, of those moments when she had been momentarily wrenched into a world of danger, terror, perilous vulnerability, lingered in the shaking of her hands and the frantic beating of her heart.

She stopped just short of the edge of the veranda, at the place where the light of the moon met the darkness of the shadow. She could flee now, could run back to the safety of that moonlit garden, back to the ballroom, with its dazzling gold chandeliers and its ever elegant opulence.

But why should she? Why should she have to run? She turned, and her eyes found the one who had assailed her, and he found hers. 

Lionel, her brother, the Inquisitor.

"I'm sorry Amy, I'm so sorry," his words were heavy with the burden that they carried, and laden with a desperation born from shame, from regret.

His hands, raised to the world for all to witness his guilt, were now empty. But there was a knife at his feet, a reminder of what he had done, what he _could_ have done. 

"I was just...I was talking to Dorian and he said someone was watching me, and…"

Her eyes snapped viciously towards his. 

"Oh I _know_ you were talking to Dorian," the fury in her voice shocked her, but then, so had the knife he had held at her throat, so had the feeling of her breath escaping her. "I saw you both out there, acting as if the entire court wasn’t here to witness it!" 

His expression of concern evaporated within an instant, rolling his eyes as he elicited a heavy sigh of indignation. "Amy I really don't have time for this right now..."

"Oh right, because you're so busy sneaking off in to the gardens with Dorian to–"

"Amelie!” He didn’t shout, or cry, or scream at her until her ears bled. He was calm, somehow. But his tone was commanding nonetheless.

She froze, somewhat ashamed with herself. She had spiralled, she knew, her words running away from her as the shock of what had happened, and the lingering memory of what she had seen, took its hold over her. 

But now, she was silent, waiting for her next command. 

After all, she didn’t know what else to do. 

She hadn't meant to shout at him, not really.

“Come on, we can talk in here,” he gestured towards an archway at the far end of the veranda that was covered in a blanket of cobwebs.

He didn't allow her to protest. He only held out his arm and waited for her to lead the way.

It was dark in that room. Even darker than the veranda at the edge of the garden.

She didn’t like the dark. Especially not after what had just happened.

She turned back towards the courtyard, her eyes falling once again upon the iridescent waters of the fountain.

It was so much more beautiful out there. So much more welcoming. So much more safe.

Then she found Dorian, standing by the edge of the veranda as he watched them carefully while the moonlight reflected off of his narrowed eyes.

Their gazes locked, and that fire raged within her heart once again. No, she would not run. 

She turned on her heel and ducked beneath the stone archway, walking head first into a cluster of cobwebs which she soon discovered were only a small part of a larger network which covered every surface and cascaded from every corner. 

She removed her mask. No one could see her in here and, besides, she didn't want it getting covered in cobwebs. That would be embarrassing. 

Lionel marched past her, waltzing into the room as if he owned it. He didn't look at her, instead scanning the room, as if by instinct, his fingers picking up every object, no matter how many cobwebs had become laced around them, and even rummaging through a chest that was tucked against the far wall. 

He produced a knife from the bowels of the chest, one that was longer, and far more ornate, than the one he had used before. He played with it in his hands, waving it around in the air before throwing it, and catching it with the other hand.

He seemed pleased with himself, at least.

“What are you doing?" She asked with a cough as a cloud of dust erupted from the disturbed objects. "You're going to hurt yourself doing that."

He stopped in his tracks, turning to her with a look of boredom, of fatigue. “Amelie Louise Hargrove. For once, why don’t you just keep your nose out of other people’s business?”

“I…" startled by his accusation, she threw him a look of disbelief. "I don't know what you mean."

“You know exactly what I mean,” he raised his eyebrows at her while sliding the knife into the inside of his red coat. “You know, I was so happy to see you earlier. It’s been months now since I left for the Conclave, and it’s been so hard not seeing you all. Yet straight away, you feel the need to start lecturing me on how to live my life. It’s not exactly been a warm reunion, has it?”

She found herself growing red at his words. He was right, they had hardly said a good word to each other ever since they had met in the ballroom.

But she knew what she had seen. She knew. 

And she remembered what he had said to her before. A joke, he had said, nothing more. A bit of fun that would never do anyone any harm.

She had seen how they had felt before, at the inn at Haven, the camp in the mountains, but she had trusted him. She had lied for him, even, to the woman who had been such a good friend to her. With everything that had happened in their lives, she had been there with advice, guidance, a listening ear when things were getting too much.

Yet, she had lied to her. She hadn't known at the time, not really. She had thought it was little more than an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach as she relayed his assurances.

He had said it was nothing, little more than a harmless joke, and she had trusted him.

It wasn't anymore.

She scoffed at him, folding her arms defensively across her chest. “Well maybe if you hadn’t involved me in your personal problems in the first place...”

“Me? You involved yourself, Amelie,” he told her bluntly. “Remember? You heard a joke in the tavern, and _you_ took it too far, interrogated me until I told you everything even as Haven began to fall around us. That was _you_, worming your way into my business even as Corypheus tried to kill us all.”

She turned away as a flush of scarlett swelled upon her cheeks.

He was right, it pained her to admit. She had heard the rumours, and the gossip, and in the heat of the moment, when fire had rained down upon them and caused them to flee to the safety of the mountains, she had pushed him until he answered.

Because she had felt that it was her business to know. As his sister, as a friend to his wife. She had needed to know.

To protect him, to protect them all. That's what she told herself.

“And you know what?” He continued in the absence of a response. “I was happy to tell you everything, because I trust you more than I trust anyone else in this world, and I knew you’d keep my secret and I...well, I guess I thought you wouldn’t judge me. But apparently I was wrong about that.”

Her cheeks reddened even more, her eyes hiding from his own as she tried in vain to hide her shame.

He trusted her. He had trusted her enough to confide in her, to keep his secret safe, and she had done. 

But he had trusted her as well to stay her judgement. She had not. She had presumed the worst of him, her brother, the one person who she had once known better than anyone else.

But why should she not? She hardly knew him anymore. The Conclave had torn a rift between their family, had sundered them, scattered them to opposite shores of the Waking Sea.

All she knew was what she had seen, the evidence that had lay right in front of her eyes. She had seen them in the garden together, she had seen them look at each other, hold each other, even, with far more affection than he had ever shared with any other. Far more, even, than he had ever shared with his own wife.

Jennifer. She remembered that afternoon in the garden, the interrogation over fragrant tea and delicate finger sandwiches.

She had said nothing. She had lied. But she had done so thinking that there was little to tell, that it didn’t really matter who her brother had taken a fancy to. It was nothing, he had said.

Except what she had just seen tonight, that was more than the fancy that her lie had been based upon. She had wanted to protect him, that was all, that was why she had done it. But she couldn't anymore.

This had simply gone too far. This was far more than Amelie had ever signed up for.

“It’s just that…” she began carefully. “Jennifer came over to mine just before I left to come here, and she was asking me about you. She said you’ve barely written and when you did you didn’t say much–”

“Oh Maker’s sake!” He cursed at her with a roll of his eyes. “You told me to write to her and I did. Multiple times, may I add! Excuse me if I don’t have the penmanship of Genitivi!"

“Well still!” She cried as she folded her arms across her chest. It was her turn to lecture now, to put him in his place. “I covered for you because you said to me it was nothing, and I took your word for it. Now clearly, that was either a lie, or things have changed since then, and she has a right to know!”

“Amy, don’t you think I feel guilty enough without you reminding me?” He said with a hint of a whine to his voice.

She paused.

That was it. He had betrayed his true feelings, cutting through the bluster and the bravado and the cavalier attitude that he so readily displayed.

There was a pain in his eyes that told her that he knew exactly what he was doing. 

Perhaps he was right, he didn’t need her lecture. He knew what pain he was causing.

So then why had he done it? Why did he continue to pursue this? Was this just another lie? To throw her off the scent and get her to back down.

Well, she would not. Not tonight.

This had gone too far.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Well, if you feel so guilty, then why do you carry on?”

He paused, turning to her with his hazel eyes softened, his shoulder slumped, his body slouching as he exhaled a sharp breath.

Defeated, he appeared vulnerable, and yet somehow more honest, more open, than he had done for a long time.

No more lies. No more secrets. No more dismissive remarks.

Her armour had been made of iron, suppressing the deepest, most heartfelt, or her emotions, and hiding them from the prying eyes of the outside world, keeping her safe, keeping her from feeling any grief, despair, loneliness.

His was his confidence, his sly remarks and smirks and teases, as if he could distract the world from how he really felt, could hide it behind a layer of bluster and bravado.

That had never been more obvious to her.

For once, all of that had been stripped away. He stood there in front of her, with nothing but sincerity in his eyes and certainty in his tone, and he revealed himself to her. No more jokes, or brushing things aside, or teases paired with sly smiles.

Only sincerity. Only surety. Only himself. Vulnerable, in a way that she had not witnessed for a long time.

“Because he makes me happy,” he said, with a finality in her tone that she could not argue with.

And she believed it. She truly believed that he made him happy, that he would be willing to go behind all of their backs and risk everything for the most fragile of chances to be happy, even if just for a moment. Because happiness was a rarity for people like them, a dream that was laid to rest long before any of them ever came to adulthood. It was a feeling that was never meant to belong to them, that they should never aspire to hold, resigned to stories told to children, but never repeated once adulthood loomed over their heads.

It meant nothing to them, it had no use to them.

Power. That was at the crux of their existence. 

Power. That was the reason they had been born.

Power. That was why they had to do what must be done, do their duty to their family.

Nothing else mattered. Least of all happiness. 

“You know that we can’t just...be happy,” she told him with a sigh. Of course he knew, they all did. That was why she had run from Haven, from Cullen, leaving him only with that letter and knowing full well that she may never see him again and, even so, nothing would happen. 

Because it couldn't. It was no use harbouring feelings for another; it was even less useful to allow those feelings to develop in to anything more. 

And yet, he was going to argue anyway, stubborn as he always was. "We can, if we do something about it." 

She sighed again, with pity beginning to swell within her heart. “Well you can't. You have a duty to your wife…”

"Can't I?” He snapped, retorting with a snarl that cut through any peace that had begun to evolve between them. “So you think I should ignore my own wishes because of a so-called duty, and then what? I end up like you?"

Amelie’s heart had been ruptured by that same knife that he had held at her throat.

Like...her?

He turned away from her and went to leave, but stopped abruptly in the archway and casting a hint of a shadow on the rough stone floor that quickly dissipated into the sea of inky black.

There was the sound of a heavy sigh, and the sight of his silhouette shifting as his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his anger.

"You carried your duty to your husband to his death bed, and look where that left you," he said with a sigh. "I will not die having spent my life wondering _what if_. I will not lose my one chance to live the life that _I_ want to live."

He sighed again, a hand moving to his head as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"I'm sorry, Amy. But I will not let that be my fate."

He left, fleeing from that dark, cobweb riddled room, and she was left with the weight of his words bearing upon her chest, and a thousand questions circling within her mind like the dancers in the Empress’ ballroom.

_Look where that left you. _

What did that mean? 

_And then what? I end up like you?_

Like...her?

What did he mean, _like her_?

How _dare_ he? How _dare_ he speak to her like that.

A fresh wave of anger rose up from deep within her, as she marched out into the garden, chasing him down, hunting him as if he were her prey.

But he was far away from her now, slipping into the crowd at the far side of the garden where the stems of a rosebush not yet in flower snaked their way through the gaps in a trellis to cover the palace wall.

She had lost him. _Maker’s sake_.

She sighed. Defeated, she slipped her mask back on to her face. She could hide beneath it, at least, hide her frustration, her anger, her pain, as those same questions continued to burn in her troubled mind.

_And then what? I end up like you?_

What had he meant? 

She turned her gaze back towards the garden, where those same people still gathered beneath the silver light of the moon. She could see the courtiers who gathered and gossip around the fountain, the minstrel who played a sweet delicate tune.

And Dorian. He was there, standing almost in that same place he had stood before. His presence mocked her, angered her. Her heart was filled with rage as she caught sight of him. She hated him for coming into their lives, for rupturing their peace, for threatening the order that had been established and putting their tranquil, uneventful lives at risk.

But there was something else that made her angry, something else that made her fill with hate, with rage. He had given her brother something she had never had.

Happiness. He had made him happy.

Amelie had forgotten how it felt to be truly happy, the type that went beyond the feigned smiles of a well practised lady and the relief when one day may not be quite so dull as the rest.

But she had had a chance too. She could have stayed at Skyhold, could have explored her feelings for Cullen, could have understood how she had felt and revelled in the joy, the comfort, that his presence offered her. But she hadn’t. She had thrown it all away with a piece of folded parchment and a kiss on the cheek, because she had had to go home, for her family, for Adelaide. That had been her duty.

She thought she had been angry for her sister-in-law, for having to cover for Lionel's misdemeanours based upon a promise that had been withdrawn, and causing her pain in the process.

But those were little more than a cluster of raindrops amid a thundering storm.

The real reason for her anger, she knew now, was jealousy. She was jealous because her brother had taken his chance, had struck out and found the key to a happier life, had chosen to place his own happiness above all else, something which she could never bring herself to do.

And that had ignited the flame within her heart and driven her to a fury she had never experienced before, one which roared through all the lingering memories of the hurt from her past as years and years of silence, of suppressing her frustrations, her fears, her regrets, came the surface and exploded in a fit of rage.

_Look where that left you._

She knew now what those words had meant. 

Her past had made her bitter. Her situation had made her sour. Her dull, unfulfilling life had made her frustrated, angry, as she pounded against the walls of her marriage home looking for an escape. 

But there was no way out for her, not like there was for him. 

Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

Not even the garden was a retreat for her anymore. She had seen it as her escape from the chaos of the ball, from the poisoned words of Gaspard and the fear at being confronted by her feelings for Cullen. But it was no longer a retreat for her. The fountain no longer expelled streams of water, but poison, that seeped into every corner of the courtyard and wrought ruin upon those who stood in its path. The whispers around them were vicious, and laden with vile intent. The minstrels gentle song was warped, twisted; the song of a demon hoping to lull its prey.

This was not her escape anymore, and now there was nowhere else to run. All she could do was march past the minstrel who sang that song, past the fountain with its ever flowing waters, and past Dorian, a man she didn't know and yet who could incite such anger in her veins.

And as she did so, she carried that bitterness in her heart.

Why could she not have her brother's luck? Why could she not have had the chance to escape from her life and start anew?

Except she had had that chance. In Haven, in the mountain camp. She just hadn't taken it.

She hated it. She hated herself for it. She hated her brother, for doing what she couldn’t bring herself to do.

Duty. That same sense of duty that she had carried with her for so long, that had burdened her for so many years, that had brought her to Haven in the first place and then home again. She saw it now as a poison, rotting away at her heart and ebbing away at her happiness. 

She hated it. She hated how it made her feel, how it ate away at her soul, how it caused her to withdraw from everybody she cared for and tore them away from her.

It had torn her away from Adelaide, when she had left her to find Haven. It had torn her away from Cullen, when she had left him to return to the home that had imprisoned her. And now, it had torn her away from Lionel, because to see him do the very thing that she could never do, to see him shirk his duty in the pursuit of his own heart, caused an unwelcome tide of jealousy to swell within her.

A tear seeped out of her eye, but no one would see it, no one would know how much she hurt.

They could never know. Not here. Not in Halamshiral.

That was just how the Game was played. That was just how a woman like her survived.

That was what the masks were there to do, to hide behind, to escape.

And so she returned to the Great Game, as if nothing had ever happened.

As if she hadn’t lost her brother once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long week so excuse that this has taken ages BUT anyway i'm interested to know how you guys receive this chapter and you have my permission to call out my ocs lmao but in my defense, this is character development lol anyway hope you had a fun time time to run away


	22. As Night Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The garden is no longer a retreat for her. She must return to the ballroom with what happened between her and her brother weighing upon her conscience, and with the knowledge that she can no longer stop the tide of change that is overwhelming her world.

Stepping back into the ballroom of the palace from the peace and tranquillity of the hidden retreat that was the courtyard garden was like entering an entirely new world. It was loud, it was busy, it was chaotic to the extreme, where the garden had been peaceful, still, quiet. Around her, people laughed to the point of hysterics, or chattered incessantly into their companions ear.

No one stopped for breath. No one found a moment of calm.

It was all the fury of a raging storm, and the garden had sat at its eye.

But it could serve only as the briefest of respites, as she had learnt.

A mask could hide a multitude of sins. It could hide the disdain of a noble in conversation with a rival, or a scheme beginning to be laid in the mind of a bard. It could hide its owner from the eyes of the court, from the blinding rays of Orlais' golden sun. And for Amelie, it could hide the tears that gathered in her eyes, the ones that threatened to fall with every step that she took towards the heart of the ballroom room.

But she would not let them fall. If they did, they would do so only on the cold metal in the inside of her mask. Because this was the Great Game. No one could know where she had been, what had happened, what she had seen.

No one could know what her brother’s words had done to her, nor what she had done to him.

_"Look where that left you."_

She had been left alone, in a cold, moonlit garden nestled into the heart of the Winter Palace, with a heart that threatened to burst beneath the weight of the shame, the hurt, the rage, that coursed through her veins, And with the knowledge that there was a chasm between the two of them that now seemed impossible to bridge.

The explosion at the Conclave had torn the skies asunder, and had taken her family with it.

She didn’t know him anymore, didn’t understand him, and she couldn’t bear it. The secrecy, the lies, the games he was playing behind all of their backs. She hated the way that his actions made her feel, the way that she had grown jealous of his happiness, bitter at the thought that she could never achieve the same.

They were so different, they always had been. She had been studious, bookish, when he had spent his childhood outside playing games and sports and riding his horse. He was outgoing, extroverted, the centre of attention, while she was quiet, and timid, hiding in the corner of the room where she was safe, protected by the feeling of the walls at her back and the room ahead of her.

They were so different, they always had been. But never more so than they were now.

He had done something that was unthinkable to her. He had gone behind the back of the woman he was sworn to, and found himself a new life.

She hated him for it. Not just for what he had done to Jennifer, but for what he had done to _her_.

He had made her bitter, jealous, angry, and she hated it.

But he was gone now, somewhere only the Maker knew.

She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to find him again.

Not now. She wasn’t ready for that. She didn’t know if she ever would be.

He was elsewhere, lost to her, as she stood amongst a crowd of people she did not know, in the centre of a ballroom that she had never wanted to return to.

The garden was supposed to be safe, an escape for her. But now, there was no where left to run.

"Amelieeeeee!" She heard someone call to her from somewhere within the crowd that gathered around her.“Amelieeeee!”

She turned around, searching for the owner of that voice, scanning the faces of the crowd until she saw her, her sister, shuffling her way past clusters of courtiers and dodging servants carrying trays filled with food and drinks, muttering the odd “excuse me” and “sorry!” as she pushed her way past.

Claudette. Thank the Maker. She was still here, she still had Claudette.

“Amelie! Where have you _been_?” Claudette asked with a huff as she placed a hand on her waist while the other balanced a plate filled with food.

“I’m sorry, I was…” she trailed off. How could she even begin to describe what had happened in the garden? Did she start at Haven, with the chatter in the inn that had first betrayed his feelings?

But no, she heard a voice then. Her brother’s voice, as cruel and spiteful as it had been before.

_“Remember? You heard a joke in the tavern, and you took it too far, interrogated me until I told you everything even as Haven began to fall around us.”_

No, she couldn’t tell her. Not that. It was...embarrassing for her, shameful.

What about the garden? What she had seen? Did she tell her what he had done?

_“For once, why don’t you just keep your nose out of other people’s business?”_

No, no. She couldn’t. He had been right, it wasn’t her business.

_He could tell her himself_.

“Nothing, I was just enjoying the night air,” she said with a smile that had been rehearsed to the point of perfection. Years of tutoring had taught her to mask her true feelings, to lie behind a feigned smile.

She didn’t want to lie. She didn’t want to be like _him._

But what else could she do? It wasn’t her story to tell.

It was _his_, he could sort his mess out, not her. Not anymore.

“Oh well, I found the buffet and it was AMAZING!" She shrieked as she held a plate out in front of her that had been piled high with food. “I already ate all of mine, but I saved some for you!”

She hadn’t been hungry until then; her stomach had been too busy churning with nerves, with anxiety, with anger. But it had all caught up with her now. Her nausea no longer stemmed from the tension that ran rampant throughout her body, it instead stemmed from a sudden wave of undeniable hunger.

Suddenly, that plate of food was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. And she could see, right at the bottom of the pile, those sweets she had been craving earlier.

Oh Maker, this was exactly what she needed.

“Thank you so much, Claudette!” She said with a smile that, this time, was genuine. “I’m sorry I left you. Were you alright without me?”

“Yes, I’ve had a great time!” Claudette said with a clap of her hands. If only Amelie could have said the same. “I went to get some food, obviously, and while I was there I got talking to...to…”

She leaned in closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “A man!”

Amelie almost dropped the plate of food she was holding. 

Was this it? The moment she had hoped for? The very reason she had brought her to Orlais?

“Which man?” She asked her quietly, while a hint of excitement fluttered within her heart.

This was it. Claudette had met someone, someone who she hadn’t been placed in front of to be sold like a prize sheep at an Ostwick country fair, someone who she had met organically, someone who she may even grow to love.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, and the excitement within Amelie’s heart was quickly extinguished.

She frowned at her from behind her mask. “You...don’t know?”

“No, why would I?” She asked with another shrug. “You said we weren’t meant to be asking who people were. You said it was rude…”

“I know that,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “That’s why you look at the mask. Like how we have the Trevelyan horse etched into ours.”

_Ours_, she had said, without even thinking. 

Claudette’s mask was emblazoned by a rearing horse, and it was magnificent. The light from the chandelier reflected off of it in an array of splendid colours, that danced across the silver surface and battled fearlessly with the jewels that were encrusted upon there.

On Amelie’s, the horse was small, and overshadowed by the shield that represented her married name.

She wasn’t a Trevelyan. Not anymore.

Her marriage had taken that from her, along with many other things.

_“You carried your duty to your husband to his death bed, and look where that left you,”_

“He wasn’t wearing one,” Claudette shrugged again, as her fingers began to twist at a strand of her chestnut brown hair.

Amelie’s confusion grew to concern. “What do you mean, he wasn’t wearing one?”

“I mean, he wasn’t wearing one,” she was told as Claudette’s pitch began to rise and her tone became more shrill.

Amelie took a deep breath. “So you don’t know who he was?” 

“I don’t know!” She said again with her tempers continuing to flare. “_You_ told me not to ask!”

Amelie sighed. They’d gone around in circles, with no end to their conversation in sight. 

And she didn’t want her to be angry. Maker, she couldn’t do that to her. Not after what had just happened.

She couldn’t lose her too.

But it _was _peculiar. This was a masquerade. _Everyone_ had to wear a mask. Not just the nobles, but the servants, guards, even dignitaries from other countries would wear masks. Maker, even the king and queen of Ferelden had worn masks at Orlesian balls, and they were famously out of touch with the rules of high society.

To not wear a mask was to reveal to all that you had no lineage, no title, no family of repute.

It was the gravest of offences for anyone of repute to refuse to don a mask.

That could only mean one thing, her mystery man was someone of low standing or ill favour. 

Except that wasn’t strictly true. At least, not on this night. There was a group of people here who weren’t wearing masks, who had chosen to be bold and daring as they exposed themselves to the entire court of Orlais, while they mingled amongst a sea of gold and silver masks in a thousand different styles and patterns.

The Inquisition.

Her mind began to race through the members of the Inquisition that she had seen here tonight. But most of them had been women. Cassandra, Vivienne, Josephine, Leliana. Except for the two she had seen in the garden, of course.

But apart from that...

Cullen.

Was it him?

Oh Maker, no. Not Cullen. Anyone but Cullen.

“Anyway, enough about him,” Claudette said as she dismissed their conversation with a wave of her hand. “What should we do now?”

Claudette had moved on, brushing their conversation aside with a flick of her wrist, but Amelie could not.

The man she had spoken to. Could it be Cullen?

She couldn’t think of anyone else that it _could_ be.

Who _wouldn’t_ be wearing a mask except for the Inquisition? For him?

No, she was being ridiculous. This was Lionel’s fault, he had made her so tense, so bitter, so frustrated.

She shook her head, forcing the poisoned thoughts out of her mind as she turned back to her sister with another of her feigned smiles. 

"Let’s take a walk about the room, see what we can find,” she told her as she held out her arm in invitation.

“Oh ok!" She cried out with delight as she clutched at the lace of Amelie’s dress. “Oh, and if I see that man again, I’ll show you!”

Amelie's heart sunk once again. “Yeah, sure.”

What if it was Cullen? What if he had grown tired of her after she had left Skyhold? What if he had never liked her in the first place?

Maker, she should have stayed with him at Skyhold. She should have told him everything. At Skyhold, or in the mountain camp, she should have told him. Even if she didn’t understand it herself, she should have told him what he meant to her.

She could have been happy, just like her brother. She could have turned her back on her former life and started again, just like him.

That could have been her, in the garden, sharing a moment beneath the moon’s gentle embrace, as a swell of music accompanied the trickle of the fountain behind them.

But she hadn’t. She hadn’t told him. She had run, just as she always did.

Maker, what had she done?

She tried desperately hard to swallow back the impending tidal wave of despair, and smiled, aware that her mask did not hide her lips from the prying eyes of the palaces courtiers.

It was more for her own sake, anyway, that smile, to convince herself that everything was OK.

It wasn’t. Her brother, and now possibly Cullen, lost from her.

Why did that bother her so much? Why did the thought of her losing her chance to tell him how she felt cause such a pain to swell within her heart?

She just couldn’t explain it.

He was little more than a stranger, in the grand scheme of things. She had known him for only a fraction of her life, and she could count the number of times she had spoken to him on one hand.

But in those brief moments, they had shared something. He had cared for her, had looked out for her when the world had turned dark around them, when the light of the two moons was not enough to fight back the looming shadow. And she had…she had felt..._something_.

She wasn’t sure what it was, but it was _something_.

And she had let that something slip through her fingers when she left Skyhold behind, to return to a life that was bleak and dull.

Amelie let Claudette do the talking, and mercifully, she had plenty to say, just as she always did. She just wasn't in the mood for idle conversation. She was too tense, too frustrated, too bitter.

She hated feeling like this. But she couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop herself from feeling the anger swell up from deep inside of her. 

She could have had what Lionel had. She could have been happy, with Cullen, just as Lionel was with Dorian.

But she had been too afraid, too scared of the consequences, of abandoning her duty to her family in Ostwick.

She hated it. She hated that she could feel that way about her family, that she had been so angry at her brother, in an attempt to deflect that anger she felt at herself. 

Some of what her brother had said had been right. She had interfered. She had been judgemental. She had been bitter because she would never have what he had. 

_“I trust you more than I trust anyone else in this world...I guess I thought you wouldn’t judge me. But apparently I was wrong about that.”_

She hated it. She hated feeling this way.

But she also hated the way that he had brushed her off, deflected her frustrations back on to her.

He had never been able to accept when he had done something wrong, their mother had been the cause of that. Her only son, her precious heir, could never put a foot wrong, could never harm anyone.

The chasm that had opened up between them, it would never heal until he recognised what he had done, and until she could ease that bitterness that had developed in her heart.

But how did she do that? By talking to Cullen? By telling him how she felt?

But she couldn’t, not now. It was too late. Wasn’t it? She had lost her chance, choosing instead to write down her feelings in a letter that she would never hear a response to, that he may never even have read.

Maker, she was a fool. 

What had she done?

"Amelie, look! Amelie!" Claudette whispered frantically into her ear as she tugged on her arm somewhat aggressively. "He's back! He's coming over! LOOK!"

"What? Who?" She turned around abruptly, following the direction of Claudette’s pointed hand.

What had she expected to see? Her worst nightmare confirmed? The final blow to her shattered heart, as she realised that she had been right, she had been too late, that Cullen’s attentions had fallen elsewhere? After all, who else except the Inquisition had attended the ball without masks?

But as they approached him, and he approached them, her jealousy turned to confusion, then turned to shame.

It wasn't him. Of course it wasn't. 

Amelie breathed a sigh of relief, before her cheeks began to burn once again with shame.

How could she have let her thoughts run away from her like that? How could she have felt so bitter towards her sweet little sister?

It was Lionel’s fault, damn him. He had made her so frustrated, so tense, so…

"Hey! I was hoping I'd see you again," a voice called out to them that was heavily accented, in a way which seemed so stark in contrast to the melodic chattering of the Orlesian nobles around them. 

Amelie looked him up and down, studied him, watching him.

It didn’t take long for her to find her answer. He was a guard, or a soldier of some sort, dressed not in the red uniform of the Inquisition, but in a regular suit of armour.

A man, but not Cullen. A soldier, but not him.

Not a commander, just a regular footsoldier.

_Thank the Maker._

But then her sigh of relief turned to a sharp inhale of sheer panic.

Oh Maker. Oh no. 

Their mother had sent her here to mingle with lords of high esteem and even higher title. Claudette was supposed to find a man of good reputation, of standing. Not a soldier.

Maker, she would never be allowed to be with him. If their parents were here, they wouldn’t even let her _talk_ to him.

"Oh! I thought you wereon duty?" Claudette asked him as Amelie witnessed a smile beginning to creep onto her lips. "Won't you get in trouble for leaving your post?"

"Well, I just had to ask _very _nicely,” he said with a mischievous smile. “So, my beautiful lady, would you care for a dance?”

He was so charming, and so charismatic, and so daring in his approach, that it came as a shock to Amelie, as his mannerisms juxtaposed his somewhat untidy appearance, his slightly unkempt hair, the harsh intonations to his accent.

That accent...it reminded her of…

What was it?

It was...

Her grandfather, or her mother after a few glasses of wine, on childhood trips to an ornate estate on the outskirts of a bustling city.

Starkhaven. It was a Starkhaven accent.

She turned to study him, this man from Starkhaven. He was generally scruffy looking, with his dark hair slightly unkempt as it stuck out from the top of his head at strange angles, and it was stark in contrast to the uniform that he wore so proudly. And on that uniform, she noticed for the first time that same insignia that she had seen on the soldiers outside: a burning eye pierced with a sword.

Inquisition.

Her mind had immediately raced towards Cullen when Claudette had mentioned his lack of a mask, fearing the worst as always. But she had been wrong. This was just a footsoldier, someone in her brother’s employ.

Except...

Her mind flooded with a memory that she had long forgotten, of a Chantry in Haven that had since been engulfed in flames and then buried by an avalanche of snow.

That accent, she had heard it before. Those tattoos, they were familiar to her.

_Oh...so _that _was who this was..._

"Amelie! I need to ask you something, quickly!" She was pulled away from her thoughts by an insistent cry from Claudette, and a tug on her arm that tore her gaze away from the man she now recognised.

But what his name was, she couldn’t remember. She had never spoken to him during her time at Haven, had never thought to. And at the camp in the mountains, when he had been so central to the search for her brother, she had been far too distracted to even consider it.

"Amelie! Hellooooo?"

"Sorry," she said with a quick smile and a shake of her head. Not now, Amelie. "What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"Him! Help! What do I do?" Claudette said quietly as she leant in closer to Amelie and rose on to her tip-toes to whisper into her ear "I mean...it’s OK, isn't it? Dancing with another man seeing as, you know, I kind of already met Marcus and we’re pretty much promised to each other now even if we’re not officially…”

Amelie turned her gaze to find her eyes of hazel green staring at her from behind her silver mask. They were intense, interrogative, as she waited for an answer from her sister. 

I mean, I know you already said it was OK I was just...making sure."

She _had _said that before. She _had_ said it would be OK.

But was it? 

Nothing had been signed, her mother had said. But an agreement had taken place, pieces of the chessboard had begun to be moved, and an alliance had begun to be struck between two men with great ambitions and an even greater hunger for power. And yet, they had whisked her away from that promise of a marriage in the hopes that she would find a better one. After all it wouldn't matter if they were to risk an alliance if there was a better one to be had.

But this wasn't. This was a soldier, pulled from the ranks of her brother's ever expanding army, with his messy hair and his scruffy looks. 

No one. He was no one.

Their parents would never allow it.

She sighed. "Claudette…"

She should have said no. She knew that.

She should have told her to walk away, to find someone else more suitable. That was what their mother would do.

But there was a smile on Claudette’s lips, a twinkle in her eyes, a song in her voice.

_"Because he makes me happy_._"_

Did it matter? One dance with a man in Halamshiral?

Would anyone notice? Would anyone care?

It wouldn't matter, surely. One dance, amidst the thousands that would take place on this night.

One dance, that was all.

"It's fine," she found herself saying. "Like I said, nothing has happened yet."

The smile on Claudette's face only grew. The twinkle in her eyes evolved into a constellation of glistening stars. The song in her voice began a beautiful serenade.

"You're sure?" She clutched at her arm as she looked up into her eyes with joy emanating from behind her mask. "You're really sure?"

Was she?

"_You have a duty_," she had told her brother, and she had told herself that many times too over the years.

But at what cost? What price had she paid to fulfill her duty?

_"You carried your duty to your husband to his death bed, and look where that left you,"_

Everything.

It had cost her everything.

Her own happiness, and then the happiness of others too.

"Go and enjoy your dance," she said to her as she brought her hand to her sisters and prised her fingers off of her arm.

The smile on her face, the delight in her eyes, and the spring in her step as she leapt towards her dance partner, made the turmoil in Amelie's heart worth it. 

Had she done the right thing?

_"We can't just...be happy_," she had said in the garden only moments before.

And yet, there was a smile upon Claudette's face, a smile that had been on Lionel's too before she had interrupted him, scolded him.

Guilt began to overcome her.

Whilst she had sought to dampen his happiness, had told him to bury it, to abandon it, she had told Claudette the opposite. 

But no. It wasn't the same. He was married, she wasn't. His life was beholden to another, hers wasn't. Not yet.

Except Amelie knew the rules of society, had lived them every day since she had grown into adulthood.

That wasn't true.

Her parents would never abandon the deals they had made for a soldier, she knew that. And yet, she had allowed her to dream.

_It was only a dance,_ she had told herself. But a dance could mean so much more in a place such as this, if not to themselves, then it may do to others, those who watched every movement, every dance, every slip of the tongue and every wander of the eyes.

Maker, what had she done? Had she led Claudette to social ruin when she had barely been in society for more than five minutes? Had she consigned her to a life of scandal and ruin?

And her brother. Maker, had what would he think of her for encouraging their sister to do the very thing that she had told him was so wrong?

It was different, he was married, she was…

Not yet. But close enough. 

_"You aren't engaged yet, Claudette."_

_"Well, I may as well be!"_

It was as if Lionel's hands had grasped at her neckline once again, as her chest tightened and her breath became raspy, pained, desperate. 

What had she done? Maker, how could she have been so stupid. This was stupid, dangerous. She should never have brought her here. She should find her, salvage her reputation before it was torn to shreds by the vultures of the court who peered at them from over the balustrade. 

Her heartbeat quickened, her breath becoming raspy as she fought for breath while drowning in a sea of courtiers with masks to hide their wicked eyes and their poisoned hearts.

She had to find her. She had to stop her.

The two of them, they were not their brother.

He was a fool to think he could chase a dream, and she was a fool to think that Claudette could too.

"Amelie?"

She stopped. A voice had called to her from amidst the chaos, a cry to her from beyond the horizon of the vast sea that she had been drowning in. 

It was a gentle voice, a calm voice, but it was commanding as it summoned her attention towards its owner, who stood tall amongst the crowd that ebbed and flowed around him. In his presence, the courtiers with their opulent masks and their ever-watchful eyes faded into little more than a blur while the hubbub of chatter and noise around them dimmed.

All she could focus on was him, standing in front of her with his golden eyes shining in the light of thousand candles.

Cullen? What was he doing here? What did he–?

His hand was raised slightly, as if he were waiting to pass something to her. 

She looked down at it, studying it. It shuddered ever so slightly, his fingers trembling as he clutched at a piece of parchment that had begun to age, it’s edges torn and scuffed, it’s surface yellowed and worn.

She looked back up at him, finding once again those eyes that shone as brilliantly as the ballroom’s chandelier.

The letter. The one she had written for him all of those months ago.

It was there, in front of her, clutched between his trembling fingers.

And there was nowhere else for her to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter did it to me a bit so forgive me for any weird bits lol but i hope you all enjoyed it and what a sigh of relief after the last chapters *event* (lmao oopsie). I'll see you all again in two weeks <3


	23. Words Unspoken and Letters Long Read

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie ran from Skyhold, from her burgeoning feelings for Cullen, returning to her old life and the security it brought. But she can't run any longer, not from this new world, not from her feelings, not from him. Especially not when he holds her letter in his hand.

There had been a time when she had wondered if she would ever see Cullen again.

After her flight from Skyhold, after her return to Ostwick, to normal life, she had presumed she would not. After all, she certainly had no intentions of returning to that place, not if she could help it.

That was why she had written that letter. 

She never thought she would have to reap what she had sowed, to answer for her transgressions.

She never thought she would be here, standing in front of the man who helped her through so much, and who could be capable of causing such a stir in the depths of her heart.

But here he was. Cullen. Commander Cullen.

He was back. He was in front of her.

Cullen. Commander Cullen.

_No, he had said not to call him that._

Cullen. Just Cullen.

She had spoken to him before, of course. This wasn’t the first time they had found one another amongst the chaos and commotion of the Empress’ ball. It had been awkward, that first time, and stifled, as the weight of their shared past lay heavy upon their words while the eyes of the court, and her sister, watched on.

Then, they had said their goodbyes, and she hadn’t even imagined that he would approach her again. She couldn’t imagine that he would want to.

Perhaps he had never even read her letter.

But here he was, standing tall and proud in front of her with his golden eyes reflecting the light from the ballroom's grand chandelier as they watched her carefully, and in his hands, lay a piece of parchment that may seem nondescript, but carried with it all those memories of that time before.

She knew, deep within her burning heart, that it was her letter. It _had _to be. The one she had written to him in a moment of madness on the top of a freezing cold mountain. Where she had said...had said…

Maker, she couldn't even remember what she had said. It felt like such a long time ago.

_It was_.

But she knew what was in it, to some degree. It was a culmination of all of her thoughts, her feelings, her gratitude, for the man who had looked after her when the world had begun to fall apart around her.

Was it too late to run from him? To make an excuse? To pretend that she was needed elsewhere?

But where would she go? There was nowhere else left, nowhere else to run. The garden had been an escape for her once, a chance to step away from the chaos of the ball and hide from the secrets she had sought to flee from.

But not anymore. Not while _he_ was still out there, that Dorian, who scorned her with his watchful eyes and mocked her with that teasing grin.

"Amelie?"

_Cullen._

Her eyes found his, and as they did so, all thoughts of running, of hiding, of escaping, left her in an instant. How stupid of her, to think that she should dismiss him, not when she had become so lost in those honey coloured eyes, so entranced by that crooked smile, and so curious about that parchment in his shivering hands.

She didn’t want to shiver in the night air of a moonlit garden or retreat to her dull life in Ostwick. She wanted to be here, where the chaos of the ball had subsided, fading into little more than a distant murmur of voices muffled by the masks their owners hid behind.

She didn’t care about the sea of masks behind him, nor what they could hide.

And as he spoke to her, her worries, her fears, her inhibitions, vanished in an instant, forgotten as she became enamoured by the soft tone to his voice, by the pull of his scar upon his lips, by the way in which he turned that parchment over in his fingers again and again.

"Amelie, I just…” he spoke so softly, so quietly, that she was forced to come closer to him, ignoring the voices of the courtiers around her as she focused on him, and only him. “I wanted to come and talk to you about, um…”

He stopped for a moment, his shoulders slumping as he expelled a heavy sigh. He bit his lip, his gaze falling as he stared at the floor beneath his persistently shuffling feet.

She waited patiently, wondering if she should intervene, if she should ask about that parchment. 

But did she want to? If it _was_ her letter, did she want to know what she had said on that mountain side? Would she feel ashamed? Embarrassed? 

As she looked at that parchment, and noted the way in which her breath became more ragged, more laboured, she realised that she was scared of the feelings that he had conjured within her, that he _still _conjured in her, and it terrified her to imagine what she had said in that letter.

"But then I...I saw Rylen here and…" he continued, and she watched as he folded that piece of parchment back up and slipped it into a pocket on his trousers.

And just like that, the parchment was gone.

She almost cried out, almost tried to stop him.

She wanted to know. She wanted to know if it was hers, if he had read it, if he had been horrified by her words or enamoured by them

But she didn’t, and she regretted it almost immediately.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know he was talking about your sister," he blurted out all of a sudden as she watched his face redden with shame. "I wouldn't have...I mean…”

His voice trailed off, as he rubbed at the back of his neck with a nervous hand, the same one that had once held that piece of parchment so delicately between his index finger and his thumb.

But now he was talking about...her sister?

"It's... fine, honestly," she said with a sigh as she dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand.

Why should she care? Claudette was long gone, dancing with this Rylen, this stranger, and it had not been him who had authorised it.

It had been her, for good or for ill.

"Oh Maker, your brother's going to kill me if he finds out," he cursed beneath his breath, but it was loud enough for her to hear, and to pique her interest in a way which made her forget about Claudette, and that letter she had written so long ago.

"Well, he's one to talk," she said to him with a scoff and a roll of her eyes.

Cullen tensed at her words. His eyes, sharp and beady where they had once been warm and gentle. They found her own, studied her, watched her, waited for her to reveal the secret that she was hiding.

Or, perhaps he already knew. He may even know more than she did.

That wouldn't surprise her, that his new friends would know all of the secrets that his family did not. That seemed to be how it was now with him; the Inquisition only grew stronger while their family ties grew weaker.

But...did that matter now.

"It doesn't matter," she said dismissively, moving the conversation forward with a wave of her hand and a clear of her throat. "Anyway, it's OK, don't worry about Claudette. It's just a dance."

Just a dance. That was all it was. It was nothing.

That was what her brother had said once. Nothing. 

But as she had found out, nothing could very quickly become something, and that made her question whether she had really done the right thing by letting her dance with one of Cullen’s soldiers.

Oh Maker...what had she done?

"And what about you?" He asked her then with a clear of his throat, and Amelie found her eyes snapping back towards his

Behind her mask, her brows furrowed as she studied him with narrowed eyes. "What about me?" 

"You, um, haven't got a dance partner, then?" He asked with another clear of his throat and a pull at the collar of his coat, from which a tide of red had begun to spread up his neck to pool at his cheeks.

He wasn't asking her, was he?

_Was he?_

What if he was? What would she say?

No. She'd say no. She'd be too embarrassed, too nervous, too shy. She was a terrible dancer, always standing on her partners feet, or struggling because she was so tall.

But she remembered then how it had been to be in arms, to smell the earth and the soil and the damp remnants of what had once been snow that had seeped into his well worn clothes. She remembered the way he had made her smile, laugh, forget the pain and cruelties of the world even in her darkest moments. She remembered how handsome he had looked, bare chest exposed to the world, with the strength in his arms and the tone to his stomach so apparent as she stood so tall and proud in front of her.

And he was handsome now, dressed in a smart uniform that fit snugly across that strong chest, with a collar that ran parallel to his sharp jawline that had been shaven so cleanly she could only imagine how soft his skin would be.

The skin she had once adorned with a kiss.

His eyes widened, his skin becoming pale, and then a deep, burning crimson. "Oh! I wasn't...I was just…"

Her beating heart came to an abrupt stop.

He wasn't asking. He wasn't.

She sighed. Of course he wasn't. Don't be stupid, Amelie.

She conjured up a smile, for her benefit as much as his. "I haven't. I've been...preoccupied."

That wasn't a lie, at least. She had hardly had a moment of peace since she had arrived. She was always on edge at events such as these, always tense, always uneasy, but then she had seen her brother on the dancefloor, she had spoken to Gaspard, and then to Cullen.

And then, when she had escaped to the garden, she had seen what her brother was capable of, what his lies had escalated towards, the betrayal of his word that her own lies had been based upon.

With everything that had happened in that short window since she had arrived, she hadn’t even spared a thought for dancing. Not that she enjoyed dancing, anyway. She was clumsy, with two left feet, and a deep seated nervousness that lingered in the pit of her stomach as she performed at the very centre of everyone’s attention, one of the few places she really hated to be.

And yet, in spite of all of that, her heart had raced as she thought of how it would be to dance with Cullen. Something about him, his presence, his companionship, made her lower her inhibitions and dare to imagine things that could never happen, _should_ never happen.

"Oh, right," he said with another clear of his throat and a tug at his collar. He looked to the ceiling, to the floor, to swarms of people who milled about the room and chattered and laughed with glasses of wine balancing in their fingers.

He cleared his throat again. "Amelie, I…I wanted to…"

Was this it? Was he going to ask her to dance? Was he–?

His arm lowered once again. Diving into the pocket of his trousers, he fished out that same piece of worn out parchment that he had held before.

Oh Maker...

She had almost forgotten about it, with the mumblings about her sister and the embarrassment as she pondered over whether he would ask her for a dance. But now here it was, held securely by his large fingers even as he began to unfold each corner.

He looked at it for a moment as he passed it between his fingers, his thumb brushing over a corner that had been handled so many times it had begun to fray.

Then, he sighed, as he closed his hand around the parchment and hid it from her view as his arm moved to place it in a pocket. 

"Nevermind…"

She sighed again, her shoulder slumping with defeat. 

But Maker, she couldn’t take anymore of this. 

She could let it go, pretend it never happened, run away, as she always did.

But she was tired of running away. She was here because she had wanted to run, from her life, her responsibilities, her secrets, and yet, all she had done was run head first into a vipers nest. And at the heart of that nest, where the vipers were at their most poisonous, were the very secrets she had hoped to run from as she had hidden away in her dull life at Ostwick. Her brother, Dorian, Cullen.

But as he stood here in front of her, handsome and proud in his immaculate uniform, she couldn’t figure out exactly _why_ she had wanted to run from him before. When he spoke to her, she smiled. When he looked at her, she blushed. When he came closer, her heart threatened to burst.

But it wasn’t something to be afraid of, surely? Nothing that felt this good could ever be a bad thing, could it?

His presence had weakened her resolve, lowered her guard, eaten away at her inhibitions. 

She had lost her chance before, when the letter had been hidden out of her sight before she had had her chance to ask.

She wasn’t going to lose it again. She couldn’t bear it if she did.

Her heart couldn’t take much more of this, the worry, the anguish, the fear over the unknown. She couldn’t go back to Ostwick not knowing what he could have said to her; she would never be at peace unless she asked.

She took a deep breath, swallowed the rising tide of nerves, and did the very thing she had always been told that noble ladies should not do: take the first step.

"What's on that parchment you're holding?" She asked him with a voice that was steady even in spite of her uncertainty.

She could put on a good act, when she wanted to.

His eyes found hers at the sound of her voice. He watched her with a curious gaze as he studied her face even as it was hidden behind her mask. Then, he looked back down towards that parchment in his hand. He unfurled it slowly with fingers that trembled, and a hand that was unsteady, unsure.

When it opened, he found her again, his eyes soft and gentle, even as they grew wider as he spoke to her with words that were laced with fear.

"Don't you already know?" His voice was soft, so soft, that she could barely hear him above the ever persistent din of the courtiers that filled the ballroom. 

But she had heard. It was the answer that she had expected, the one that her heart had screamed at her to be prepared for.

And yet, she wasn’t. She was anything but.

Her heart was pounding with such ferocity that she felt an ache in her chest as it struggled to contain it. Her eyes were wide with panic, horror, fear, before they lowered with shame, embarrassment, humiliation.

She really had written that letter. He really had read it.

And he still had it. Here.

She couldn’t run from those words anymore, nor from the feelings that they had been drawn from.

Maker, was this her reckoning? Was this the moment where she would have to face what she had done?

"I...think I do," she mumbled timidly from behind her mask. "Forgive me Cullen, I don't know why I–"

"There's nothing to forgive, Amelie," he insisted, with a voice that was still so soft, so gentle. Yet it was assured, confident, the tone of a Commander marching at the head of his forces.

Hearing him speak in such a manner shocked her. How often had he stumbled in her presence, or spoken with a crack in his voice that betrayed his uncertainty?

Not now. Something had changed. A confidence seemed to surge within him, as he became emboldened by every word that he uttered to her.

And his words…

_There’s nothing to forgive_.

He...liked it? He wasn’t...upset, or mocking her?

She found herself moving closer to him, step by step and inch by inch, shutting out the chaos of the court around them as she tuned in to the gentle words that fell from his lips.

People may look. People may wonder. People may whisper.

But she found herself unable to care.

None of them mattered to her, anyway. Not anymore.

Only him. Only this.

And she wanted her answer. She wanted to know what he had thought, what her words had meant to him.

She wanted to know why he was here with that letter in hand, why he had wanted to talk to her.

What he thought of her. What he thought of those words, her feelings, her honesty.

“Cullen…”

"You'll think I'm really weird, bringing it here with me, I know," he interjected, as if he were reading her every thought. "But I just...I couldn't…"

He looked away, and as he did so, the room appeared to darken in the absence of the light in his golden brown eyes.

Maker, how reliant she had become upon the warmth in those eyes.

"I just can't stop thinking about yo–" he froze, turning to her with a look of wide eyed horror before returning his gaze to the floor while a hand massaged the back of his neck. "It. I couldn't stop thinking about...about_ it_."

What had he just said to her? Or rather, what had he _almost_ just said to her?

It sounded like...like...

"Cullen…" she whispered again as she searched those pools of molten gold, she examined the blush on his cheeks, she watched him fidget beneath her hidden gaze, and she wondered – Maker, she did she wonder – what he would have said if he had finished his sentence.

"It was just so kind of you," he said quickly, with the words tumbling out of his mouth at such speed that they almost merged into one. "I didn't expect – or deserve, in fact – that much kindness from you."

"You do!" She insisted, her words tumbling out of her mouth before she could even hope to stop them. "And...and _you_ were the one who was so kind to me in the mountain camp. When everything seemed so difficult, so tough, so bleak, _you_ were the one who helped."

He scoffed and shook his head in disagreement with a laugh of disbelief.

"You did!" She insisted with a new wave of passion in her tone. He had to know, he had to be aware of what he had done for her, what his kindness had meant to her, what _he_ had meant to her. "I meant every word that I said in that letter."

She had said those words without even thinking. Her heart had taken control of her mind, had lowered her inhibitions and had loosened her tongue.

But now, that heart came to an abrupt stop. 

"Y-you did?" He asked with a tremor in his voice, drawing himself closer to her even still.

But she couldn’t answer him, not right now. Because the truth was, that letter was written a long time ago, in the middle of the night on a snow covered mountain with only the moonlight to aid her.

She couldn't remember exactly what those words were. She had an idea, or course. But she couldn’t remember what she had told him, what had penned in the darkness of the night.

But there was something that she _did_ now. Whatever those words had been, they had resulted from an outpouring of every thought, every feeling, every emotion, that his presence had conjured within her. The kindness he had spared for her, the care had taken with her, the comfort that his strong arms had given her even in the darkest of times.

All of it was in that letter, no matter what those words may say.

So with a sense of surety that surprised even herself, she answered him.

"Yes, I did."

There was silence for a time.

He looked astounded, astonished, bewildered. But he also looked relieved, his shoulders slumping as the tension left him and he relaxed before her eyes.

A smile grew upon his face, a crooked smile, that was pulled by that scar that slashed through his lip.

"That means a lot more to me than you may ever realise," he said with a whisper that was little more than a breath, and yet, in spite of the constant roar of the conversation that unfolded around them, she could hear every word. It was as if no one else was there, only themselves. 

Because they didn’t matter. None of them mattered.

All that mattered was him.

When she heard him whisper to her, and she saw his scarred lips contort in that signature smile of his, she realised something. She didn’t want to be anywhere else. She didn’t want to be at the heart of the party, talking to lords and ladies whose names she didn’t care about and who’s stories she cared about even less. She didn’t want to watch the dancing and listen to the speeches, and whisper about the goings on of the court and the scandal that Lord and Lady So-and-so had gotten embroiled in.

She didn’t want to be anywhere else but here, with him. She wanted to hear what he had to say. She wanted him to tell her how he felt about that letter.

About her. 

Because it was never just about the letter. She wanted to know how he felt about _her_.

"I just wish...oh Maker...I wish I had known how to reply,” he said then with a sigh as he brought a hand to the back of his neck and turned his eyes towards the ceiling above them. “I feel so stupid."

"Don't feel stupid," she insisted then as a gentle laugh fell from her lips. "If anything, I'm the stupid one. I should have just...told you everything in person. I shouldn’t have just left that with you and...and run away..."

"No, it's OK," he told her with another one of his smiles that was twisted by his vicious scar. "I’m glad you did, actually. That way, I could...well,...keep hold of it. You know, as um...well...something to remember you by.”

She was taken aback by his words, her breath escaping her as her chest tightened around her viciously beating heart. 

Did he really say that? Did he really _mean _it?

Is that why he had had it with him today? Was it because he had imagined that she would be here as a lady of high society? Or was it to hold onto those memories of the mountain camp, of Haven, of Skyhold, of the kiss she had left him along with that letter?

He brought himself even closer to her, holding out the letter as he did so. 

"Amelie, I'd like you to take it," he paused then, cursing himself beneath his breath. "Sorry, it’s not that I don't want it! I just…"

He paused, and with a sigh, his gaze fell to the floor beneath his feet as he reflected, thought upon his next words.

Then, with those golden brown eyes found hers again, he brought himself closer to her. So close, that he may now have been able to see her own eyes as green as a forest in the throes of summer, watching him from behind her silver mask.

In those eyes, would he see her curiosity, her intrigue, her hope, that he would have an answer for her that was favourable, that he was not simply trying to brush away the words she had left for him and discard her feelings so readily?

Just as she could see within his own that there was a desperation, a plea, for her to reach out to him, to take that letter that balanced between his fingers.

"I just want you to take it for a moment, while I think on what to say," he said then, as he pushed the letter towards her with an even greater insistence. "I should have replied to you, I know. But I'll think about it now, and I'll come and find you at the end of the night, when all of this is over, and I'll give you my reply then.”

The letter was in front of her, balancing between his index finger and his thumb.

If she took it, she'd have to read it again, she'd have to face what she had done.

But if she didn’t...

Had she not been waiting for a response? Hoping, even?

Had she not wondered for so long what he had thought when he had read those words?

Curiosity drove her fingers towards that parchment, and as she prised it out of his hand, her index finger brushed ever so gently against the underside of his thumb, skin making contact with skin in a manner that was entirely nondescript, and yet the whole world seemed to come to a halt around them.

Her heart faltered, the rhythm of its beats fluctuating as it quickened, and then all but ground to a halt.

It was terrifying, that her feelings for this man that she didn’t even know could do such a thing to her, how he could stop her heart and then cause it to beat so viciously that her chest felt as if it were going to burst. She had never felt anything like this before, the furious beating of her heart and the sensation of her breath escaping from her body.

What was it that she felt for him? What did all of these feelings mean?

The sheer power that these unfamiliar feelings held over her was terrifying, and as her heart threatened to burst from her chest and her fingers began to shudder, she felt that instinct deep inside of her that told her to run.

Should she run? Should she push him away, shoving that piece of parchment back into his hands and fleeing from sight?

Perhaps she should. Perhaps that would be best. After all, she had been trained and tutored on how to act in so many social situations: balls, celebrations, manufactured flirtations with men from great houses and even greater fortunes. 

But never this. Never anything that relied upon a feeling, an emotion, that was raw and vicious as it ate away at her very heart and threatened to swallow her whole.

But it was too late for her to run, because she had become entirely convinced that that was not what she wanted to do.

And because a bark sounded from behind her that cut any thoughts of escape to an abrupt end.

"Commander Cullen! I hope you haven't forgotten your duties."

She looked up into Cullen's eyes, which had fixed themselves upon a distant point behind her shoulder. They were no longer warm, and gold, and shimmering like the candles that adorned the magnificent chandelier. They were as dark as the shadows in the garden, as sharp as the knife that had rested on her throat, and as guilt-ridden as the look her brother had given her when he had realised what he had done.

She knew what he had seen. It was a voice she knew so well, that it had stood out to her not so long ago in that moonlit garden, distinct, proud, and familiar, as it whispered amongst a chattering of courtiers and danced to the gentle melody of a lute. 

It was her brother’s voice, of course it was. 

She stopped breathing. Turning, she brought her hands behind her as she rushed to hide the letter behind her skirts. But it was hopeless. 

The smirk on his face, the humour in his eyes, the knowing shake of his head and the quiet tut that escaped his lips, told her everything.

He had seen it. He had seen them. He knew.

Oh Maker, he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops so this took me so long to edit wow *passes out*. It was lovely to write though so there is that! Hope you all enjoyed <3
> 
> Also slight adjustment to my schedule. I normally do every other week but so i can have a longer break in september i'm bunching some chapters up (more info on my tumblr). So 24 is going up next week instead of in two weeks!! Hooray!


	24. The Toll of the Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The palace is filled with watchful eyes, and Amelie and Cullen have just been discovered, by no less than the Inquisitor himself. But what will he think of the budding romance between his commander and his sister? And what impact will that have on the relationship between the siblings?

There was a man who stood behind her, who had worn a smile that had been consigned to a life of asymmetry by a vicious scar, and whose eyes had been pools of molten gold that shone in the light of a thousand candles, as he stood before her in a ballroom that was dazzled by their splendour.

She had shone in his presence, had basked in the warmth that his kind smile and his golden eyes had conjured. 

But not anymore.

Cullen stood behind her now, while in front of her, there stood a man who’s gaze was as cold and hard as ice, with hair that burned like the flames that had licked at the walls of the Haven chantry. There was mirth in his eyes and in his smile, but that was only a mask to hide his true scorn, frustration, anger.

“I hope you haven't forgotten your duties,” Lionel had said to the commander. But with the look in his eyes, he said something else, something which went unspoken, but was communicated by the frown at the corners of his lips and the hint of darkness that had passed over his gaze.

_Did you think I wouldn’t notice?_

_Did you think I would never find out?_

“Yes! I mean, no! I hadn’t forgotten!” She heard Cullen splutter behind her, but she dared not turn to look at him. “Apologies, Inquisitor, I was just…”

Amelie’s eyes widened, as she felt every inch of her body freeze.

What was he going to say? What could he possibly say to justify this? To make this seem in any way _not_ what this had been?

Nothing. He said nothing. His words failed him.

Amelie wished he could have said something. _Anything_.

But that would have been a tall order. This was Cullen, he was bad with words, he had said so himself. But even she was struggling to conjure up the words to explain what this had been – or had _not_ been – with her mouth hanging open uselessly and her cheeks burning red behind her mask.

Thank the Maker she was wearing a mask.

“I think you should just get back to work, don’t you?” Lionel said on their behalf, causing a sigh of relief to escape from Cullen’s lips.

"Yes! Yes I should!" Cullen said quickly. "I'll just…"

Maker’s breath, he was going to leave.

No, this was unfair. 

She hadn’t decided yet, she hadn’t agreed to his suggestion, she hadn’t even figured out what she wanted to do, what she wanted from him.

Curse him, why had Lionel decided to interrupt them like? Why had he decided to stick his nose in to their business like...like...

Like she had done in the garden.

She wondered how long he had been watching for, what he had heard. She wondered how it sounded to him, if it had filled him with anger, with a feeling of betrayal, just the words he had spoken to Dorian had done to her.

That was different...that was...

"Wait a minute!" Lionel called out to him, brushing past Amelie as he hailed down the rapidly fleeing commander.

His eyes had left her, even if only for a moment. 

She breathed, she sighed, she relaxed, enjoying her moment of respite. 

But then…

_Oh no._

The letter. It was still in her hand.

She looked about her person, searching for somewhere, _anywhere_, that she could hide it.

She hadn't thought to bring a bag, her servants would carry anything she needed to the ball, and now she was stuck with the letter in her hand, the one that revealed all of her secrets, the one that had been etched with every feeling that she had ever felt for Commander Cullen in that time when Haven had fell.

He couldn’t see it. He just...couldn’t.

"If you have any more trouble, let me know," she heard Lionel say, and she watched as Cullen nodded, and he turned away, with only a fleeting glance back towards Amelie before he did so.

But she couldn’t look at him, she couldn’t watch him leave. She had no time. She had to hide her letter.

Without thinking, she grasped the high collar of her dress and secured it beneath the seam of her underclothes, where she hoped it would stay tucked between the cotton and her skin.

He turned back to her, his brows furrowed and his hazel eyes narrowed with suspicion. 

She straightened up, cleared her throat, smoothed the fabric of her neckline, and she waited for her brother to speak.

Maker, she hoped no one in the court had seen her do such a thing. It would have been a lot more discreet in a dress such as Claudette's. She had paid the price of her modesty, it seemed.

They stood in silence for a moment, watching each other intently, like a hungry wolf staring down at the figure of a shuddering fennec.

But which one was the wolf, and which the fennec, she wasn’t entirely sure. 

He had hunted her to this point, but she had cornered him in the courtyard drenched in moonlight.

Then all of a sudden, the stand off came to an end. His eyes left her, his defensive smirk returning, as he sauntered towards her with his hands behind his back and his gaze fixed upon the ceiling.

"He's been getting a lot of err..._attention_ here..." he began with a clear of his throat as he came to a stop not too much farther from her than Cullen had been.

Amelie blushed viciously as he stared down at her with a watchful glare.

Maker...he knew, he must have done…

Then, he cleared his throat again. "There was a whole crowd of them around him at one point,” he said quietly as he watched her with intent. “It was so weird…"

Amelie's blushing subsided. It wasn’t her. He wasn’t talking about her.

_Thank the Maker._

Her expression of shame turned to one of relief, then concern, then jealousy.

She could picture it so clearly in her mind. People crowding around him, gawping at him, treating him like an object for their desire.

She hated it. She hated them. They didn't know him like she did. They didn't deserve him.

It surprised her, how protective she had suddenly felt over him. He wasn't hers to protect, to grow jealous over. They hardly knew each other, really, strangers save for a few encounters in the shadows of the Frostback Mountains and a letter penned beneath the light of the moon.

So why had it bothered her so much, to hear him say that? Why did she care if others were interested?

“Oh well, they’re gone now,” he said with a shrug that told her that that conversation was done. “Where’s Claudette? I was hoping to speak with her. It's been so long since I saw her last..."

He turned to her once again, with a gaze that was softer, more like the brother she had once known. So much so that she felt herself relaxing, her breath slowing as she relished in the opportunity to take the conversation away from Cullen.

"Oh, she’s dancing with…” she paused, her words falling into silence as her mind screamed at her to stop.

Oh Maker, how could she forget? Rylen was one of his soldiers. She shouldn’t tell him, not now. 

That was Claudette’s story to tell, her prerogative. Not hers.

"A man. Just some man,” she told him dismissively.

Lionel’s ambivalent gaze dissolved as a frown passed over his lips. "Huh."

He said nothing else. Not for a moment, anyway. He just looked away, his gaze dropping to his feet where he shuffled from one foot to the next.

Then, his eyes snapped back to hers. "And you're fine with that?"

She matched his gaze, emerald green eyes fixating upon those forests of hazel green.

The true answer was that she wasn’t sure, that she hadn’t been sure when she had given her the permission in the first place.

But she had made her decision now, there was no going back.

All she could do was face the storm in those eyes and whatever anger may remain in his heart.

That trace of the brother she had known before had vanished, and the man from the garden now stood in his place, and she would be damned if she was going to let him get to her like this.

“Yes, I am,” she shrugged.

"Right..." he said without breaking contact with her gaze. "Bit hypocritical, don't you think?"

Amelie conjured up a storm within her heart as she held his gaze.

She would not be lectured by him, not after he had betrayed her, betrayed her family, betrayed Jennifer, so callously. 

"I don't know what you mean," she said with a huff that was only met with a fresh wave of scorn.

"I _mean_, you've just been lecturing _me_ on my...my…" he paused then, thinking on his words. But he shook his head and moved on without finishing his sentence. "And then I come in here, and I find out that you let Claudette _dance_ with another _man_."

He was seething beneath that cool exterior, she knew. 

But so was she.

She remembered what she had seen, what he had done, what he had admitted to.

The peace that she had found in the presence of Cullen, had vanished within moments of her brother's arrival.

"That is absolutely _not_ the same!" She challenged him as she folded her arms across her chest. "Claudette isn't married! _You_ are! She can dance with whoever she likes and, quite frankly, who am I to stop her?"

"Don't lie to me Amelie, I know she's betrothed!" He came closer to her, his words falling from his mouth in frantic, aggressive whispers as he shielded her from the eyes of the court. 

_Maker’s breath_, he knew. "How do you know about that?"

"Mother wrote to me," he said dismissively. _Of course she did_. "Don't you realise how dangerous this is? Don't you realise what will happen if his family finds out?"

Yes, yes she did.

She wasn't stupid.

She knew it was dangerous. She knew it was wrong.

But her and her mother, they had taken that gamble anyway, hoping that she may find someone of better standing, of greater wealth, far more deserving of the favourite daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick. 

The man she had found wasn't that at all. He was nobody, a foot soldier in their brother’s Inquisition, someone who, as far as she knew, had no family of repute, no wealth, no land, no title. 

But she had said yes anyway.

Maker, he couldn't find out who she had danced with, not with his tempers so flared.

Amelie composed herself in the face of his anger. "It's not finalised yet…"

"Don't take me for a fool, Amelie, you _know_ that's not true," he interjected with a roll of his eyes and venom in his tongue. "Now why the fuck would you do that to her? Why would you put her in danger like that? This is Halamshiral, the people here, they–"

She knew all of this. She knew how Halalmshiral was. She had been here so many times before, had seen with her own eyes what could happen to those who had played the game.

Yet she couldn’t help herself. 

"Because I want her to be happy!" Amelie cried out as her own anger burst out in reflection at his own. “Because _I_ was never given the option, and maybe I think she deserves to enjoy herself just a little bit before it’s all taken away from her. Maybe I don’t want her living her whole life regretting that she didn’t take that chance. Maybe I don’t want her hating me because _I_ stood in the way of her one chance at happiness?”

She bit her lip, stopping herself before her tirade spiralled even further.

There was a hint of a tear in her eye, a shudder to her lips.

It shocked her, to hear the anger in her words as they fell from her lips, and it frightened her that he was right, Claudette _was_ in danger. If anyone saw her dancing with Rylen, if anyone reported back to the Alessi's of Tantervale, it would be on her reputation only.

Not Amelie's, hers.

So why had she done it? Why had she allowed her to gamble it all away for the chance of a moment's happiness?

Because Lionel had been right, she had been so constrained by her position, her marriage, her duty, that she had never known happiness herself. If she were Claudette's age again, if she could start again, she would do whatever it took to have her chance to be happy.

What had he said about regret? It had been very similar to the words she had just spoken.

But what hurt her the most, what had brought that tear to her eye amidst the storm that was brewing in her mind, was when she saw the colour drain from her brother's face, the light within his eyes fade, the ever persistent smirk on his lips shatter into a thousand pieces.

He stepped away from her, wounded, hurt.

"And what about me?" Lionel said with a crack in his voice that was suddenly so quiet, so timid, so feeble. "Amy? What about me?"

She turned to him, and where there was once anger in his voice, there was now hurt, pain, disbelief. 

The mask had shattered. 

"Do you not want me to be happy too?" He asked her with a voice so quiet that she was forced to bring herself closer to hear him above the din of the courtiers who gossiped and danced around them. "Do I not deserve to be happy?"

He looked down at her, wounded with a pang of hurt in his voice and a tremble to his lips.

She had hurt him, again. 

And now she didn't know how to make that better, how to heal the wound that she had created, how to cross the chasm that had erupted between them.

When had they become so distant? When had it become so easy to hurt him?

She had no answer. She had no words. 

She had nothing.

"I don't believe this," he said finally, with a scoff that marked the rising of his anger once again. "You stand there and you lecture me on what _I _should do, on what _you _deemed to be right or wrong, but that doesn't apply to you and Claudette, does it? It doesn't matter when _you_ flirt with someone or dance with someone but Maker forbid _I_–"

Amelie was the one who was wounded this time. "_Me_?"

"Yes, Amelie, _you_," he snapped at her viciously. "Do you think I'm a fucking idiot? I saw you and Cullen making eyes at each other, passing love letters to one another like a pair of lovesick children."

A jolt tore itself through Amelie’s thundering heart. 

Maker, how long had he been watching them? How much had he seen? How much did he know?

"Excuse me?" She cried out with a squeak in her voice while her cheeks flushed an angry shade of red. "We weren't...we weren’t _making eyes_ at each other and...and, we _certainly_ weren't passing _love letters_!"

"I saw you throw that letter down the front of your dress, Amy," he told her as he folded his arms across his chest and watched her intently.

"It's not...that wasn't…" 

The skin of her cheeks grew more angry, the beating of her heart more vicious.

This was one of those moments where she wanted to run, but she couldn’t, not when he had seen everything, not when her actions had caused so much pain.

So instead, all she could do was stand her ground, meet his gaze, face him.

There was nowhere else to go. Nothing else she could do.

After all, what right did he have to question her after what he had done? Hadn’t he told her to mind her own business, before worming his way into her own?

That was what she told herself. That was the mantra that echoed about her mind as she doubled down, stood her ground.

There was nowhere else to go. Nothing else she could do.

"In case you hadn't noticed," she said as she stiffened her lip and straightened her back, in the way her Mother had always told her to do. "My husband died three years ago. Even if it _had_ been a...a _love letter_, I am not married, I am a free woman, I can do what I like."

She expected him to be angry. She expected him to retaliate, to burst into a fit of rage.

That would be what their father would have done, had she ever had the strength to stand up to him.

But he didn’t.

He only scoffed, rolled his eyes, folded his arms defensively across his chest.

"You know that isn't true," he said with a shake of his head. "You said it yourself just now. We will _never_ be free to do as we please. We can never just 'be happy'. That's the price we have to pay so that our Father can continue to hoard his wealth while the rest of the world suffers beneath the heel of our boots."

“I meant...I didn’t mean...” Amelie lowered her gaze. 

What had she meant? 

She had meant that he was married, that he had run away from his responsibilities and now couldn’t face going back to them, and yet had somehow made it into a problem that was systematic, inherent in their way of life, their upbringing, a price they must pay for being who they are.

No, he was wrong. She was free. Her husband's death, it had freed her. 

It was different.

Wasn’t it?

"It’s different,” she said her voice shuddering with uncertainty. “I did my duty, I...I always did what I was told, I..."

"What? You really thought that, because you did what you were told and kept your head down, our parents would just let you do whatever you like?" He said with a scoff. "Come on, Amy, I thought you had more sense than that."

Her entire body froze as his words caused a chill to pass over her.

Had she thought that? Had she really dared to dream of such a thing?

For a moment, when Cullen's golden eyes had looked upon her as his scarred lips spoke words that brought warmth to her heart, she had. She had imagined a world where she could take his hand, and pull him close, and kiss him not on the cheek this time, but on the point where his jagged scar met the pink of his lips.

Then, her brother had come to shatter her dream, with a truth that she had not wanted to hear.

She could never live that dream. She could never feel the touch of his hand or taste the salt upon his lips. She could never dance with him beneath the painted ceiling and the dazzling chandelier.

She could never have him. She could never be with him.

Her heart shattered into a thousand pieces, a sigh escaping her lips as it did so, and he must have noticed, because she was met with a look of pity, of sympathy, of knowing.

"I'm sorry, Amy," he said with that pitiful gaze. She hated it, with every ounce of her body and with every beat of her aching heart. “I didn’t want to upset you, I just…”

She didn't want his pity, or his sympathy.

She wanted him to be wrong. She wanted to prove him wrong.

But she couldn’t, because everything he had said had been true.

She knew that. She had told him as much in that garden.

Yet, she had dared to dream.

"The only way that any of us will ever be happy is if we break away," he told her as his expression hardened, his eyes now alight with passion where they had once been darkened with sympathy. "Now I'm here, away from...everything...I've finally been able to find out who I am, _what_ I am. You can have that too, Amy, but only if you have the courage to break free."

Her heart thundered in her chest. He was right, she knew that.

But it was so easy for him. So, so easy.

Not for her. She was trapped, her wings beating against the bars of her cage as she cried out into a world that did not care to listen.

He had escaped long ago, and she had been left there alone, trapped, afraid.

"Don't," she snapped at him with poison in her tongue as a fresh wave of anger brewed in the depths of her heart. "Don’t pretend that it’s that easy. _You've _been given an escape route. The Conclave was your way out. I don't have that. I was left – just like Jennifer – to carry on while you–"

"That's not my fault," he interrupted with a sharp retort. "Amelie, I didn't ask to be here. I didn't ask for any of this. I didn’t ask to be...”

He paused, scanning his eyes over the room around them before, slowly, lowering to look down at the hand that had been marked by the remnants of the Conclave, that had been scarred by the storm that brewed in the skies above Haven, that had been lauded as the mark of a saviour, a hero, a herald of the beloved Andraste.

“I'm sorry, Amy, I really am,” he spoke quietly at first, but then his voice began to rise again as his frustration began to seep into his words. “But don’t you dare blame me for doing something about my life just because _you_ don’t have the courage to do so yourself.”

He spoke even faster than he normally did, and in his words she could feel the passion dripping out of every syllable, the heart revealing itself with every word.

And it hurt. Maker, did it hurt.

He was right. She didn’t have the courage. All she had done was run away from anything that had made her happy, frightened that she didn’t deserve it, that it was some kind of smoke screen for a pain that would only come later, that it would be so fleeting that it wouldn’t even be worth chasing.

It hurt to hear him say that, knowing that it was the truth.

He sighed then, his gaze far more gentle that it had been before.

Pity. That was pity in his eyes now.

"Amelie, I know you've had a hard time," he said to her with some care. "But you can't keep taking it out on other people. Not me, not Claudette, not Adelaide..."

She turned to him with a scowl.

Adelaide? _Adelaide_? How dare he? She would never do such a thing.

Would she? _Would she?_

No...no she wouldn’t. She would never…

Amelie's eyes snapped up to find his, and she saw in his eyes the very same hurt that she felt in the depths of her heart when she was reminded of her marriage, of Richard, of Emilie.

Adelaide reminded her of all of those things. She had his eyes, his pride, and the name of the woman he truly loved. Adelaide Emilie Hargrove was a constant reminder of the pain of those final years of her marriage, and she had never stopped deflecting that on to her.

None of that had been Adelaide’s fault. And yet she _had _taken it out on her, had deflected that pain towards her, and now she was doing the same to her brother, dismissing his own pain with memories of her own. 

She hadn’t wanted to do that. She’d never wanted to do that.

“I didn’t...I didn’t mean…” she began as she bit her lip to stop it from trembling. 

She didn’t want to hurt him. She didn’t want to hurt any of them.

But she had. So had focused too much upon the pain that her own heart was feeling, so intent on maintaining her composure, on keeping hidden the turmoil that was in her heart, that she had lashed out, had hurt those she cared about the most.

Because she had never taken the time to listen, to understand.

“I just...in the garden,” she said with her words as faint as a whisper. “I didn’t understand. I _don’t_ understand…”

"Because you’ve never asked," he said with words that tumbled gently into a sigh. "I thought we’d understood one another when we spoke after Haven, then I thought we could talk again when I next saw you but..."

His words trailed off into another sigh, and a deep, unsettling silence fell over the two of them.

No, she hadn’t understood. There was a lot she didn’t understand, not really. Not anymore.

She _had_ never asked, not really, not until the Conclave. Everything had seemed to be...just fine.

But that was only because they had never talked, not really, not since they had grown up, done their own thing, taken their own paths in life. They never talked to one another, never asked if the other was OK.

He had asked her once, when her husband had died. But she had never thought to ask him. She was too busy concentrating on her own life, her own problems, her own pain, to even consider that he may be hurting too. Besides, him and Jennifer, that had always seemed amicable together, if not entirely happy. 

He had never complained, never moaned, never been so willing to throw it all away for the sake of a person he barely knew.

But what did she know? Less than she had ever imagined.

It turned out that she didn’t know him, didn’t know anything about him. Not really.

"Was it really that bad?" She asked him then, with all trace of frustration removed from her voice, replaced instead by shock, pity, and shame. She hadn’t even known. "You can tell me what’s going on, what’s bothering you. I promise, you can tell me."

He turned to look at her once again with another exasperated sigh. 

He looked wounded, hurt, and tired. So, so tired.

"Amy, I meant what I said before," he said quietly as he dropped his gaze from her own. "I trusted you more than I trusted anyone else, and I would have told you everything."

"You can, you can tell me anything!" She insisted as she reached out towards his arm, just as they had done when they were children, and one of them had tried to console the other. “YOu can trust me, I promise!”

He had done it to her a lot; she had been such a nervous child.

He had always helped, had always been her beacon of confidence when she had had none.

But as she reached out towards him, as she tried to repay all those moments when he had helped her, he pulled away.

"No, Amy, I don't think I can," he backed away from her, his arms raised in a defensive gesture. "I’m sorry, I just...I need to…"

She chased him, approaching him even as he backed away.

She knew then what she should have done before. When she had doubled down, had stood her ground, composed herself, just as their mother had taught her to, she had been wrong.

She should have allowed herself to be weak, vulnerable, as she opened herself up to him.

_Listened_, she should have listened. _Apologised_, she should have done so.

Then maybe he would have done too. Maybe he would have listened, apologised. Maybe they would have healed that divide that had ruptured between them.

"Lionel, I'm so–"

"Inquisitor!" The cry of her brother’s title ripped her attempt to heal the divide to shreds, her words tumbling into the chasm that had opened up between them as she was forced to come to a stop.

She hoped that that wasn't it, that those words would lie in a bottomless chasm for all eternity, never to be spoken.

She hoped that she hadn’t lost the chance to heal that divide, to become as close to her brother as she once had been.

She hoped that it wasn’t now too late.

She hoped. Maker, she hoped.

"Yes Leliana?" He said as he turned away from Amelie with a heavy sigh.

Amelie followed his gaze to find a Leliana who looked very different to the one she had met in Haven. With her face no longer obscured by a dark hood, her delicate features had been exposed to the eyes of a thousand courtiers, while a short, neat bob of ginger hair danced about her chin as if it were mimicking the performance on the dancefloor below.

Her face was sweet and kind, her smile gentle and warm. 

But it was a mask, just like the one that Amelie wore, and when she spoke, she betrayed the tension that was hidden beneath that kind smile.

"I have the information you asked for," she said to him in a low voice, but not so low that Amelie couldn’t hear.

She suspected that that was on purpose. Everything was in a place such as this.

"Right, yeah," he said with his back to Amelie, refusing to look at her even as he turned his attention towards her. "Sorry, Amelie, I need to–"

"No, she should stay," Leliana interrupted him sharply as her composure slipped for just a second. "It concerns her too."

“Me?” She turned to her with a start. “What...what is it?”

Maker, what had she been thinking this whole time? This was Orlais, Halamshiral, the Winter Palace.

She was still in the Game. Both of them were.

How had she become so distracted? How had she let their personal lives control her, take over, slip beneath her mask of sterling silver?

It wasn’t just Claudette who she had put in danger. It was Lionel. It was herself.

She had allowed them, forced them, even, to become distracted by the feelings that they weren't allowed to feel, the emotions they had been trained to ignore, the thoughts that they had never been allowed to explore. 

That was why they wore a mask. It was a means to survive in the Great Game that was a noble life.

Maker, how had she allowed herself to spiral like this?

"Gaspard was lying,” Leliana told him plainly. “He knew about your sister and he invited her on purpose."

"Why?" He was sharp, commanding almost, in his curt response. Tension was in his jaw, his squared shoulders, the tendons of his whitening hands as they clenched by his sides, his earlier hurt and his seemingly persistent frustration becoming forgotten in an instant.

Leliana was far less outwardly tense, but no less alert. She had the composure, the grace, the strength, that their mother had always so desperately wanted themselves to exhibit.

She was a master of the Game, while they were mere pawns. Or Amelie, at least. That had never been more clear.

"Could be a number of reasons,” she said with a shrug. "Perhaps he wanted to make it clear how much he knew about you, or how much he can find out. A show of strength, of control. Or, maybe he wanted to get under your skin, weaken you, expose a chink in your armour."

Amelie turned away. She thought of the turmoil that his words had stirred into her heart, how they had lit a spark in her soul that burst into flames when she had seen her brother in the garden.

_He had succeeded_.

When she had arrived, she had naively thought she could play the Game, that she had become a master after so many years. She had thought she was practised, composed, the very picture of a noble lady.

She was not. She had fallen at the first hurdle. She had let Gaspard drive a wedge between them that she wasn't sure would ever heal.

She had lost the Game, and lost her brother with it.

"He's going to pay for this," Lionel said then, with eyes that were filled with that same fire that Gaspards words had ignited within her. He had gotten to both of them, it seemed. "Where is he?"

"Inquisit–"

"I can't let him mess around with my family like that, Leliana!" He snapped at her, his eyes wide and his cheeks burning as his words rose to an aggressive snarl. "If he thinks that he has any chance of an alliance after this–"

"Inquisitor! Control your temper!" Leliana snapped back at him, even as her delicate face remained composed. Unlike Amelie, Leliana had a mask of iron that was infallible; she could see it in the way that her grey eyes had hardened, steely while a smile remained painted upon her lips even as she spoke in frantic tones. "People are watching."

He stiffened, and so did Amelie.

"Who?"

Leliana turned away, and both sets of eyes followed her as she nodded towards a woman who stared at them boldly, her beady eyes shining from behind a silver mask that Amelie had seen before.

It was the same one that Gaspard had worn. 

That could only mean one thing.

"That's Duchess Florianne de Chalons," Amelie said to the two of them, who turned to her with a look of surprise and bemusement. "What? We spoke together at a party once."

"Inquisitor, I think she wants to dance with you," Leliana teased as they turned back to the woman whose eyes had not left them. Or, rather, had not left her brother.

She was right, that was the look of someone hoping to initiate a dance. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Lionel scoffed. 

"No, she's right," Amelie told him, which earnt her a scowl.

"Look her in the eye, bring her over," Leliana urged him, but she spared a look of disdain at the sight of the storm that had passed over his face. "Don’t sulk at me, Inquisitor! We need information."

"I know! I know!" He hissed at her, but the poison soon evaporated from his tongue, and his gaze softened, and he sulked as a sigh of defeat escaped his lips. "Fine, I'll dance with her."

As he said those words, the ballroom was taken over by the deafening toll of a large bell, one which silenced all of those around them, and prefaced a round of applause from the dancefloor below.

A round of dances had finished. A new one was to begin.

"Good," Leliana said after the final bell had tolled. "And for the sake of our beloved Andraste, can you at least _try_ and act like you enjoy her company. We won’t get anything out of her if you sulk the whole time."

Leliana all but shoved him towards the duchess, while he threw her an expression of pure contempt. 

She ignored it, turning her back on him and chuckling beneath her breath. “Have fun Inquisitor!”

But as soon as she was gone, he sighed heavily, cursing beneath his breath. Then, he composed himself, straightened his back, raised his chin, and turned on his heel.

He didn’t say anything to Amelie, he barely even acknowledged that she was there.

"Wait!" Amelie called out to him. 

She could catch him now, she could talk to him, quickly, try and mend that divide, try and cross the widening chasm that had opened up between the pair of them.

But he would not let her.

"Later, Amelie," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand as he walked towards the duchess with a skulk to his gait.

He took the duchesses hand with a courteous, well practised, bow, and led her towards the dancefloor with a smile painted across his face, so that his face was the very picture of what the court would expect from the eldest son of Bann Ferdinand of Ostwick, the Herald of Andraste, and the Inquisitor.

It was a mask that was nowhere near as ornate or as splendid as the ones worn by the courtiers who watched, nor the one worn by herself.

And yet, somehow, it was just as effective, if not more.

The bells tolled again as her brother vanished into the waiting crowd, and Amelie, even as the entire court bustled their way into the ballroom and surrounded her on all side, even as the chatter and laughter swelled around her to a point where the music couldn’t even be heard, she had never felt so alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew these chapters are so long wowee. I'm taking next week off so chapter 25 will be up in 2 weeks time! I hope you all enjoyed this, it was certainly a killer to write and edit lol. I'll see you all again in 2 weeks time!


	25. Her Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frightened by her brother's words, and by the chasm that has opened up between them, Amelie seeks to do what she has always done: run. But is it too late? And how much longer can she run from the past that haunts her?

The bell tolled.

The ballroom swelled with courtiers. Surrounded on every side, Amelie soon became adrift amongst a sea of jewel encrusted masks emblazoned with crests and icons of heraldry. And yet, even with all of these people crowding around her, Amelie had never felt so alone.

She walked with the crowd, side by side with a thousand people she didn’t know, a thousand others who swarmed towards the same goal as herself: the Inquisitor, who was to dance with no less than the Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons. It was an event that no one would want to miss, one that would be talked about in these hallowed halls for weeks to come.

A marcher, dancing with one of the most powerful women in Orlais.

She heard a whisper that rippled amongst the crowd, rising and falling like a wave lapping at a shore.

The Inquisitor. That heretic. That son of a noble from Ostwick, of all places.

The Free Marches had attempted aristocracy in a way that would never match Orlais; the banns of Ostwick meant little to the dukes and comte’s of Orlais, considered only when all other marriage options had been exhausted, or by middle class families hoping to climb the social ladder, as her mother’s family had done.

And yet, here he was, this almost nobody from Ostwick, set to dance with the Grand Duchess.

A delight, an event that couldn’t be missed, some of them said.

A travesty, a scandal, how could Orlais stoop so low, others said.

He’d like that one.

But Amelie didn’t walk with the crowd to witness the dancing, not as such. She was desperate to find her brother, just as they were. But not for the same reason.

She didn’t care about dancing. She needed to talk to him. She needed to understand. She needed _him_ to understand.

She had never meant to hurt him, to alienate him, she was just…

Tired. She was tired of these secrets, of this double life she had found herself falling into, the balancing act between her life at Ostwick and the one she had had a taste for at Haven.

Tired. She was tired, and she had been for a long, long time.

It had just taken this long for her to realise.

And how many people had suffered because of her? How many people had she taken her frustration out on?

Everyone. Everyone she had ever loved.

Her brother had simply been her latest victim.

It wasn’t hard to find him, once she pushed her way to the front of the crowd that had now come almost to a standstill. The centre of attention as he so liked to be, he reigned supreme over the dancefloor, where he danced so elegantly with Duchess Florianne that every eye in the ballroom had become fixed upon him.

With his face bare amongst a sea of masks, he stood out glaringly. People whispered about it all around her, this second rate aristocrat from the Free Marches, who dares to dance with the Grand Duchess with no mask upon his face.

But she could see it, the mask he wore. It was carved of stone, not silver, unmoving even as the court jeered and whispered around him. They would think he was happy, perhaps, as Amelie had done for as long as she could remember.

But it was that same expression that he wore in public in the presence of Jennifer. To others, he would look content, as years of tutoring could allow him to do, as she had always imagined he was.

But now she knew better. She knew now that it was a mask for him to hide behind.

She thought not too long ago that the Conclave had changed him. But now she was beginning to wonder if it had only revealed a part of themselves that they had suppressed for far too long.

She had never seen him as happy as he had been in the garden. It had been as if that was where he meant to be, locked in Dorian's gaze.

He had never been that comfortable with Jennifer. Maker he had never been that comfortable with _anyone._ He was awkward half of the time, and outright hostile at others. He liked attention, but only if it was superficial. He had always shied away from comfort, had always pretend to them that he didn’t need it.

He certainly wasn't comfortable with Florianne, his long limbs were stiff and awkward as he carried out the well practised steps, his gaze steely and composed as he all but looked past her.

How could he be so different around him? What was so special about this Dorian?

She sighed. She wouldn’t know, not unless she asked. Not unless he talked to her.

And he wouldn’t, especially not now. They were distant, had hurt each other too viciously. The wounds were still raw, the pain still throbbing from the epicentre of point where his words had ruptured her heart.

No, even if she waited for him to finish, he wouldn’t want to speak to her.

What was she even doing here? She should just leave. She should go. She didn’t belong here.

_But Claudette_...

Maker, no, she couldn’t leave her here alone.

She scanned the crowd on the other side of the pit, searching for that chestnut brown hair and that red dress that Amelie had raised her eyebrows at all those hours ago.

Oh Maker, she’d been rude about that too. Claudette...yet another victim of her pain, another who had earnt her scorn as she deflected her frustrations.

Adelaide. Lionel. Claudette...

That was why she had brought her here. Her mother, so prone to overthinking and worrying over very little, had swayed her with a few words whispered in her ear at the right time. Because she was sSo dissatisfied with her own life, she had deflected her experiences onto her sweet younger sister, ripped her away from the life that was being lined up for her.

Yet it could be so different for her. Marcus was young, a bachelor. He didn't have a history, a past.

She could have been wrong. Her instinct could have been off, battered and broken by years of suffering.

Lionel had been right. She had put her in danger, and it could have all been for nothing.

She should find her, get her out of here, before she got hurt, before Amelie’s actions hurt her.

She wanted to leave, and she would take Claudette with her.

Besides, it was very clear that she wasn’t welcome here anymore.

Lionel had told her to mind her own business, well so be it. She wasn't keeping his secrets anymore, she wasn't going to be lectured by him. If he was so desperate to throw everything away, if he really had been that unhappy, then what could she do except let him go?

He was finishing his dance now, the orchestra were playing their final notes, and Amelie grew ever more determined to find Claudette and leave.

He didn’t want her here, he didn’t want her involved. He wouldn’t even talk to her, wouldn’t even listen.

So be it, she would say her goodbyes without uttering a word to him.

The entire room erupted in applause around her, and she looked back at the dance floor to find the dancers bowing to one another, and then to them all, a crowd that was alive with excitement, the murmurings of a fragile nobility now long lost beneath the swell of praise that erupted from all around her.

She turned back to see him looking more comfortable, more _himself_, radiating from the praise that the court uttered at him. Then his smile faded as he found her, watching her with his hazel eyes beady and narrowed with contempt. He looked up at her, just as he had done when she had first arrived at the ball, when they had first found one another.

Then, he turned away, and so did she.

_Let him go, it’s what he wants._

That was her goodbye.

She found the crowd again, watching them as they applauded and cheered. Within it, the Inquisition stood out amongst them in their dazzling red coats. She saw Vivienne clap with a delicate poise as her eyes studied every movement that Lionel made. She saw Cassandra next to her, who looked as uncomfortable and awkward as her brother had done, with a scowl on her face as she scanned the masked faces of the crowd.

Then she saw Dorian, watching even more carefully than Vivienne. But he didn't smile, and his applause was muted, as if it took a great deal of effort to reward them with such praise.

She turned away with a scowl. Maker, she would be pleased if she never had to see him again. He wasn't her problem anymore, he was her brother’s concern only. Not hers.

She wasn’t dealing with it anymore. She wasn’t going to keep secrets for them, she wasn’t going to help to clear up their mess.

She was done.

_Goodbye_.

She turned to leave, but as she did so her eyes fell upon another member of her brother's Inquisition, one who very much was still her problem.

Cullen. He met her gaze even as he stood across from her on the other side of the pit. His eyes didn't leave her, not even as the dancers vacated the dance floor and the other members of the Inquisition dispersed around him.

He watched her, and she watched him.

_The letter_.

Her heart moved to her chest. Somewhere beneath the dark blue fabric of her dress, her letter lay, and she remembered the words he had uttered to her as he passed it into her hand.

_“I'll come and find you at the end of the night, when all of this is over.”_

She had smiled when he had said those words, her heart filling with an unimaginable joy as she pictured a magical moment between the two of them, shared as the dancing came to an end and the candles began to extinguish where they could talk about everything, every feeling they had battled with, every moment they had shared together.

But then her brother had spoken a truth that she had not wanted to hear, and her heart had sunk, her joy turned to despair as reality hit her with the full force of a horse at full gallop.

_"What? You really think our parents would let you go off with whoever you pleased? Come on, Amy. I thought you had more sense than that."_

He was right, they would never be allowed to be together.

That just wasn’t how it was for people like them. She had said so herself, when she had seen him in the garden with a smile on his face that matched her own when Cullen had laid his eyes on her.

_“You know that we can’t just...be happy,”_ she had told him, and the Maker knew that her words had not been a lie.

The truth of her own words haunted her, echoing through her fragile mind and twisting her broken heart until she felt weaker at the knees with every second that she spent locked in Cullens gaze.

So she ran. Maker, she ran.

She had to.

She pushed her way through the crowds and tried to put as much distance between her and the dancefloor.

_“I’m sorry, Cullen_. _I’m sorry,”_ she wanted to say, earnestly and with all of the truth in her heart.

But he wasn’t here. He was on the other side of the dancefloor.

Far away, as he had been for so many months now, a memory on a distant shore.

People grumbled as she pushed her way past them, cursing beneath their breath. But she didn’t care, didn’t apologise.

Only to him. Only to the memory of him that lingered in her mind.

_I’m sorry, Cullen._

_“I'll come and find you at the end of the night, when all of this is over,_” he had promised her, but he wouldn’t be able to find her. No matter how hard he may search, no matter how long he may wait, he would not find her.

Because she would be gone. Long gone.

Those fleeting moments when she had dared to dream of giving in to her feelings for Cullen, they were hopeless, little more than the silly hope of a silly girl.

She had to go. Before she hurt him, before she hurt anyone else.

But a tug on her arm stopped any hope of her fleeing, as she felt the touch of delicate fingers grasp at the intricate lace of her sleeve.

“Oh, Amelie! Amelie!” She heard Claudette cry, as she turned to find her sister jumping up and down on the spot in excitement with a light in her eyes that Amelie could only dream of possessing. "Oh it was _so_ wonderful! I need to tell you all about it. We danced what I have to say was a very poor rendition of the...the err...le…"

She was so happy, so full of joy, that it broke Amelie’s heart to say what she had to say.

But what choice did she have?

"Claudette, I’m sorry but, I think we should leave," she told her with an exasperated sigh, moving to grab her hand so that she could lead her through the crowd and out of the ballroom, out of the party, out of the way of those who would seek to do them harm.

Out of the way of the Inquisition, and whatever was happening here.

"No! We can't!" She protested with a shriek, as Amelie felt Claudette wrench her hand out of her own. "We can’t go _now_! I'm having so much fun, and the night isn't anywhere near over yet!"

Amelie was forced to come to a stop. "I'm sorry Claudette, but–"

"No!" She cried, folding her arms across her chest as she did so. "I don't want to."

Amelie sighed heavily. Oh Maker...

Claudette was sweet, kind, gentle. She wore a smile on her face that never faded, and there was a joy in her heart that was undeniable. But, Maker, she had been spoiled.

Their mother had spoiled Lionel, but their father had spoiled Claudette, and with their father’s affections so much harder to earn, that counted for a lot more. She had never wanted for anything, had always had things her way, and had gotten away with anything.

If she didn’t want to do something, she didn’t, and unfortunately for Amelie, what she wanted to do did not align with what Claudette wanted.

Amelie fought to contain her impatience. After all, she didn't want to fall out with both of her siblings in one night. "We have to, I’m sorry."

"Why?" She demanded to know, with her foot tapping impatiently against the floor. “Why do we have to go?”

But as impatient as she may be to have her answer, Amelie didn’t have one to give.

_Why?_ Because she had alienated their brother. Because she had been too honest with him, and him with her, and their anger at each other had revealed things about them both that she had wished she had never learnt.

_Why_? Because Cullen was here, and she had fallen for him. Maker, she had fallen for him. And Lionel had said she couldn't have him. Not unless she was to reveal herself as a hypocrite, to do what he had done and forsake her former life, what she had told him was impossible.

"_The only way that any of us will ever be happy is if we break away_," he had told her. “_Now I'm here, away from...everything...I've finally been able to find out who I am, what I am_. _You can have that too, Amy, but only if you have the courage to break free_."

And she didn't know if she could do that. She didn’t know if she had the strength.

So _why_? Why must they go?

She didn't have an answer.

She could stay here. She could go to their brother and make up with him. She could talk to him until they understood one another, until they were as close as they had been before. She could talk to Cullen, give in to her feelings. She could do what she had berated her brother for doing and simply open her heart to him, could give in to her feelings just as she had done in the mountains, just as he had done in the moonlit garden.

They didn't _have_ to go. There was a different path that she could take. But it was a path that filled her with dread. It was a route to her that was unknown, unfamiliar, as likely to lead her to happiness as it was to lead her straight over the edge of a cliff and into the depths of an icy cold sea.

She had never done anything like this before. She had never felt anything like the feelings she felt for Cullen. She had never had a moment where she had truly felt that she had wronged someone she cared about, where she had wondered if they would ever speak again.

It was no wonder she was so afraid. It was all so unfamiliar to her.

So she never found an answer for Claudette.

"Well, _whatever_,” Claudette said then with a dismissive wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes. “You can go if you want, but _I’m_ staying.”

"What? No, Claudette–" Amelie protested with a sigh. “I don’t want to leave you here on your own.”

"Well I don’t want to go so..." she said with a huff of indignation as she pouted her lips and shrugged her shoulder. "I’m having fun here, Amelie, and it’s not often that I get to have fun. Aren’t you having fun?"

Amelie's eyes fell as her skin flushed with shame beneath her mask.

No, of course she wasn't. She was tired, she was hurt, she was scared, frightened of what her brother may say next or when Cullen may find her again.

Because he would. He had promised.

_"I'll come and find you at the end of the night, when all of this is over."_

After her brother’s words, she didn’t want him to. Because if he did, she may just give in to those feelings that overcame her, those emotions that poured out from the depths of her heart, and she couldn’t do that. She didn't have the strength. She wasn't her brother. He had the strength to follow his heart, to make trouble, to make his own path.

She didn’t. She couldn’t do it. She wasn’t him.

Could she?

"Oh Amelie," Claudette interrupted her rambled thoughts with a heartfelt sigh. "I'm sorry, did something happen? Or are you just...bored?"

"It's fine, nothing happened," she lied with a dismissive wave of her hand. She wasn’t about to bring Claudette into this, it wouldn’t be fair on her to lose her brother when she’d only just seen him again after so long. "I just think it's time we went."

"But I don’t _want_ to!" She wailed with another pout of her lips. But while her words betrayed the desire of her heart, the eyes which peered out from behind her mask were filled with sympathy, pity, concern, while a gentle hand found Amelie's upper arm and gave it a squeeze. "Come on, stay and have some fun."

"No, you don't understand…" she tried to tell her, but it was pointless arguing with her. It always was.

"Amelie..." she interrupted her with a loud sigh. "You need to stop...you need to just…"

She paused, her gaze travelling to the ceiling above their head as she thought on her words. But then they found her again and her eyes now shone with that same light as they peered at her from behind her mask, while an etching of a rearing horse shone in the light of the chandelier.

"You just worry so much about everything," she told her with a kindness that oozed out of every syllable and every intonation. "You need to stop thinking so much, and just have fun for once!"

"Claudette–" Amelie began to argue, but it was no use even trying.

"Amelie!" She interrupted her with an air of reproach. "We've come all this way and, Maker, we're at an _imperial ball_! How many times do we get to have an opportunity like this? Maybe you’ve had the chance to come to a few but I never get to leave Ostwick, let alone come to an _imperial ball_!"

Amelie had been to far too many balls such as these. But of course, she would never tell Claudette that. Claudette, who had hardly been allowed to leave their parents house, let alone Ostwick, since the day she had been born.

She wouldn't understand, and she would only hurt her if she tried to make her.

She couldn't hurt anyone else today. She didn't have it in her. She didn’t have the strength.

"Look, we have one night here before we go back to our _boring_ lives in _boring_ Ostwick," Claudette continued with an exaggerated whine to her voice. "Just relax and have fun! Go and get some food or, I don't know, dance with someone, seeing as we are at a _ball_!"

A dance? Maker, she hadn't danced for years, and she had never been very good at it. She had danced many times, with many different people, before she had married. Her parents would push potential suitors in to asking her to dance, but neither herself or her partner would enjoy it.

She was tall, they didn't like that. She had a wide waist and broad shoulders, they didn't like that either. She was clumsy, and they hated that, complaining if she accidentally stepped on their foot or tripped over her own dress.

She had grown to hate dancing, had preferred to hide away on the sidelines and let others take centre stage.

So it had been years since she had danced with anyone, and she certainly didn't want to now.

Perhaps if Cullen were to ask…

She shook her head, both at herself and at her sister. "Don't be silly, Claudette.”

"Well, fine! If you’re going to be like that!" She said with a huff. "But I'm not leaving. So you can either spend the rest of the night being moody, or you can loosen up a little bit and enjoy yourself!"

Claudette folded her arms across her chest, and turned on her heel abruptly.

"Claudette, wait!" She cried, hurrying to try to catch up with her. But Claudette only quickened her pace.

"Bye Amelie!"

She took off at a run, giggling like a little girl as she stomped away in her stilettos and ran into the throng of the crowd, and Amelie soon gave up the chase, watching her sister run away from her while the party continued on around them.

Her brother, and now her sister, gone.

Maker, what could she do now?

She couldn’t leave without Claudette.

She’d have to stay. She’d have to wait.

But what would she be waiting for? For the final bell to toll? For Claudette to get bored? For Cullen to come and find her, as he had promised he would?

But what would she do then? What would she do if Cullen _did_ find her?

He couldn’t. He couldn’t find her. She was too afraid, too frightened, to even consider the possibility of speaking to Cullen again. Because what her brother had said had been true. She could never be with Cullen unless she was prepared to break free, to shun her former life. And she couldn't, she didn't have the strength.

Did she?

She didn't want to find out. She didn’t want to risk having her heart broken by the very simple fact that they just could not be together, that it was not meant to be.

She wanted to leave. She _had_ to leave. But she couldn't, not without Claudette, and even if she chased after her, she had made it very clear that she wasn’t going to go without a fight, a fight that Amelie very much didn’t want to start after what had happened with their brother.

So she couldn’t leave, she couldn’t run.

She’d have to stay, she’d have to wait.

For the night to end. For Claudette to have her fun. For Cullen to find her.

She couldn’t leave, she couldn’t run.

But she could get out of here.

She could escape from the ballroom that the Inquisition had claimed for their own, from the courtiers who watched her with beady eyes filled to the brim with curiosity, from the people who had plunged her into an endless sea of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

Lionel. Claudette. Cullen.

She ran, passing clusters of gossiping courtiers and drunken revellers, and rows upon rows of masks that hid some faces, and were falling off others. Others had completely abandoned their masks, those who had taken too much of a liking towards the wine, or had perhaps been inspired by the boldness of the Inquisitor, as hers was about to be.

She tore it off even before she had passed through the doors and out onto a small balcony, desperate as she was to take a breath of fresh air and feel the cool night air kiss at the skin of her cheeks.

She was free from the ballroom, free from the weight of her brother’s words, free from the burdens of his secrets, free from the Inquisition, her brother, Cullen.

But, in spite of the gentle breeze, in spite of the cool air, in spite of the silence that reigned over the night, she felt no more at peace than she had done before. Because whether the ballroom was behind her, or ahead, whether the mask was on her face or in her hand, whether the Inquisition were watching her or not, she was not free.

“_We will never be free to do as we please. We can never just 'be happy'. That's the price we have to pay .._.”

She would never be free.

Freedom was simply not an option for people like her. She had never been a free woman, had never made her own choices, had never sought her own destiny.

She had been brought up to be the perfect lady, had been tutored in the ways of the nobility and had been passed off into the care of someone who would never love her as soon as she was of an age where she could begin to wonder what she may want, who she may want to be.

She could never be free. It was simply not an option for her.

Or could she?

_"The only way that any of us will ever be happy is if we break away."_

She scoffed to herself. It had been so easy for him. He had been born a troublemaker; rebellion raged through his veins like the fire that had ripped through the heart of Haven. Then, he had been given an opportunity like no other. He could start again, build a new life in the wake of the devastating explosion at the Conclave.

But...so could she. Maker, so could she.

Haven, the mountain camp, Skyhold, those had been her opportunities.

Instead, she had signed that chance away with a kiss on the cheek and a letter penned beneath a sky filled with stars.

_The letter_!

Her hand shot down the front of her dress, her fingers clawing at the fabric of her underclothes and scratching at her skin until she found what she was looking for, a small, tightly folded scrap of aged parchment.

She brought it out and squinted at it in the light of the moons, just as she had done when she had penned it all those months before.

It was folded, but not in the way that those shivering fingers had done on that mountainside in Ferelden. The edges had been scuffed by wear as the seams had begun to tear themselves asunder, and she could tell by the intricate network of cracks and folds that ran through the parchment that this had been opened and folded many times since she had penned it.

She wondered how many times it had been opened, how many times those golden brown eyes had scanned over her words.

A gentle breeze lifted up from the grounds of the palace below, which the night sky had plunged into a seemingly endless abyss. She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of leaves rustling in the trees, and the ever persistent hum of the party she had left behind.

A moment of peace, finally. A moment of tranquility, well earned.

And in that moment of peace, perhaps she could find the strength to peel back that parchment and read the words she had long forgotten.

Except on that gentle breeze, there was a murmuring of voices, out of which cried that commanding, yet gentle, voice coming from the grounds below.

"Don't be so jealous dear, it doesn't suit you."

Amelie sighed. Her peace had, yet again, been shattered.

"Me? I don't know what you–"

"Oh! That explains the long face!"

Her eyes shot open. That was the voice she had heard above all others in the garden, the one who had called to her as her fingers plucked her letter from Cullen’s trembling hands.

It was Lionel’s voice.

She leant over the balustrade and peered into the abyss below. But, of course, she couldn’t see anything, save for the odd flicker of light, some of which was as crystalline as ice, others as green and otherworldly as the Breach above Haven had been.

"Can we get a move on, please? In case you haven’t forgotten, we have an assassin to chase."

It was another voice who spoke then, with an accent that was unfamiliar to her and a tone that was much more sincere than the others. But Amelie was too preoccupied with what they had said to even try and match up the voice with those people she had met at Haven.

An _assassin_?

Maker, was_ that_ why her brother was here?

Amelie felt herself burn with shame, her skin bursting into flames in spite of the chill of the night air.

When the skies had been torn apart, she had been angry at him. When Haven had burned, she had spat at him. Now, an assassin stalked the halls of the palace, placing the Empress herself in danger, and all she had done was hurt him.

These feuds, these arguments, these spats, they were nothing compared to the wars he fought everyday.

She hadn’t spared a thought for that, only for maintaining an order that he refused to be a part of.

"Oh Cassandra, are you jealous too?” Her brother’s voice cried out again, light and jovial even in spite of the task at hand. “Do you wish that a handsome man would sweep you off of your feet and ask you to dance too?"

"_Handsome_, yes. Which puts _you_ out of the equation."

The retort earnt him an outburst of laughter on his behalf followed by a loud hush, as the voices grew fainter and fainter before vanishing into the night.

It amazed her still how easily he had adapted to this new life. It was as if he had known these people all of his life, the way that he joked with them, laughed with them, how they all fell into step around each other with ease.

He was so happy here, so happy with them.

It had made her jealous, when he had told her as such in the gardens.

But she didn't have reason to be. She could be that happy too, if only she was strong enough.

_"You can have that too, but only if you have the courage to break free."_

She looked once again at the letter in her hand, her eyes tracing over every seam and every crack on the surface of the parchment.

Cullen's name was etched into the parchment in what was undeniably her writing, writing from a long time ago at a time when she had let her heart rule her head.

She could do the same here.

_"You need to stop thinking so much, and just have fun for once!"_

_Stop thinking, Amelie. Stop thinking about it._

_Give in to the cries of your heart._

Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply.

She could do this. Maker, she could do this.

_Courage_.

Her fingers opened the letter, shaking slightly as they did so, and slowly, she opened her eyes to find the words that she had scrawled on that freezing cold night in the Frostback Mountains, words that had been consigned to a distant memory that she had not wanted to recall.

_Commander Cullen,_

_I know you told me not to call you that, but it seems so strange starting a letter in such an informal manner._

_But then again, it feels strange for me to be writing this at all. You’ll think it’s odd, I know, for me to flee this place, flee from you, with the only acknowledgement of what happened between us being etched into this parchment._

_But this is the only way that I know how to tell you how much your kindness has meant to me. I don’t have the courage to speak to you in person. I don’t have the strength. I’m not my brother._

_I want to apologise to you, that I let myself get into such a state in your presence, that I relied upon you to bolster me in my time of need._

_But I’m also not sorry. Because in those moments of darkness, we found one another. I found someone who understood me, understood what I needed, what I wanted. _

_I could never tell you this in person, but it surprises me even now how comforted I felt in your arms on that fateful night, how the darkness seemed to fade if only for a second._

_But the thing is, I don’t have the strength to act on these feelings. I don’t have the courage to let myself give in to them._

_Maybe if we were to see each other again, I could thank you in person for what you have done. Maybe I can find the strength to tell you just how much of a comfort you were to me. Maybe I can bring myself to let go of my inhibitions and give in to those thoughts that drive me to your presence in the first place._

_Maybe, if we were to see each other again. But I do not know when that will be._

_That I am truly sorry for. Because when I was with you, the darkness didn’t seem to be quite so dark, the world not quite so cruel. You were a light in the darkness, a hope when there was none._

_So thank you, and I really do hope that we will get to see each other again. One day. _

_Yours,_

_Amelie Hargrove._

A knife plunged into the depths of her heart as her mind travelled back to that camp in the mountains.

She could remember it all so clearly, as if it had only happened moments ago. She remembered the cold of the camp, the persistence of the snow, and the warmth that his coat had offered her. She remembered how she had hesitated when she had taken it, how they had laughed when she had called him commander even when he had insisted that she not, how he had offered her a game of chess in a vain attempt to distract her from her pain.

Chess, of all things.

A chuckle escaped from her lips then. Maker, it was so absurd, so ridiculous, and yet, exactly what she had needed. Something absurd, ridiculous, amidst a world that had embraced such ridiculous absurdity.

Something as absurd and ridiculous of the feelings she had felt for him. The ones she _still_ felt for him.

She wondered then if they would ever get to play that game of chess.

They could, if she had the courage.

The question was, did she want to? Did she want to play chess with him? Laugh with him? Allow herself to be comforted by his presence? To feel those feelings she had tried to hide from?

Yes, yes she did. Now more than ever.

Her world had changed, and she couldn't stop it. Her brother was gone. He had become a presence in this world that had outshone them all and had shunned the life he had lived before, the one with them in it. Her sister was an adult, would soon be married and would soon be living her own life without the need of her family anymore.

She couldn’t stop it, this tidal wave of change. It would happen whether she wanted it or not.

She couldn't fight it anymore. She couldn't go back. She couldn't run.

She didn’t want to, not anymore.

She looked back down at the letter in her hands, the one that she had been running from the memory of for so long.

She didn't want to run from it anymore. She wanted to know.

_“I'll come and find you at the end of the night, when all of this is over.”_

No, she wasn’t going to wait for him to find her. She would find _him_.

This was her life, her destiny. She could fight this new wave of change, or she could embrace it.

That’s what she was going to do. Embrace it.

She turned towards the doors that led back into the ballroom, readying herself to don her mask again as she prepared to join the babble of courtiers who mingled and gossiped beneath the gaze of the Empress.

But she stopped just short of the threshold, looking at the mask that she held so carefully in her hand. It gleamed in the light of the moons, the tiny jewels littered about its surface resembling the stars in the sky above, and just like with Claudette's mask, there was the outline of a horse, rearing, she always imagined, in a fit of anger. After all, Trevelyans were so quick to anger, no matter what their motto may suggest.

But on the other side there was another etching, one of a shield, the same shield that was carved above the door to her home. It had been her husbands, a family coat of arms that had been passed on through generations of his family.

In it, he had added a blooming rose, for the wife he had lost, and whose loss he had never healed from.

She hated it. Maker, she hated it. Her family crest, tainted by the presence of another’s.

She held the mask in her hand as she watched the moonlight reflect off of its surface. It was beautiful, there was no doubt. But that beauty hid within it a poison that had blackened her heart and withered her soul until there was nothing left but a shell of the woman she had once been.

In the other hand, she held her salvation, her escape from this life, the letter that revealed every thought and every feeling that Cullen could conjure up within her.

Where the mask held the memories of a life darkened by sorrow, the parchment held in it the promise of a future that was bright, and filled with that same peace that she had felt in Cullen’s arms on that long night in the Frostback Mountains.

She knew now what path she wanted to tread.

The ghosts of Emilie and Richard Hargrove had haunted her for too long. Plagued by the feeling of hopelessness that she would never be loved in the way he had loved her, she had become bitter, cold.

Just like the mother she had never wanted to become, like the father who was distant and who’s mannerisms were plagued by contempt.

_"You can have that too, but only if you have the courage to break free."_

Those words, the words her brother had spoken to her, echoed through her mind as she approached the edge of the balcony with slow, careful steps, her eyes falling upon the great abyss below. It was a long way down to the gardens below.

_Break free._

She peered hesitantly into the ever persistent darkness below, an endless abyss that would swallow anything that fell into it whole.

She looked behind her. The ballroom was still filled with life, although some of that life had begun to wane as the courtiers existed in a long, drawn out limbo between the dance and the Empress’ closing speech.

She should re-enter the ballroom. She should face the party once again.

She should find Cullen.

But not as she had done before. Not as the woman she had been before. Not as Lady Amelie Hargrove.

As her eyes turned back towards that endless abyss, she felt her fingers begin to relax, her grip on the object in her hand loosening until the mask slipped from her grip, and she watched it as it descended slowly into the darkness below until it was swallowed whole, and she knew she would never see it again.

_"You can have that too, but only if you have the courage to break free."_

She had broken away. She had cut herself loose.

She was free.

Maker, she was free.

She turned back towards the ballroom, with the weight of her past now behind her, enveloped by the darkness of the night as it lay at the end of an abyss where it could no longer harm her.

She looked forward, her chin level, her back straight, as she had always been taught to do, with her new goal etched into her mind like the words etched into the parchment in her hand.

Cullen. She needed to find Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops bit later than I'd planned but stuff happened lol. So I've not set a time aside for 26 yet but I'm planning to work on it ASAP and hope to get it uploaded in about a week's time. Hope you all enjoyed this and catch you all again next time!


	26. Curtain Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to the ballroom, Amelie is determined to hear the answer to her letter form long ago. But it may not be the answer that she was expecting.

Without the mask to restrict her view, Amelie looked out upon a world that was so much more beautiful than the one she had left.

The crowd that gathered around the dancefloor had receded into a cluster of smaller gatherings that whispered amongst themselves. The candles that adorned the gold chandelier had begun to extinguish, leaving the ballroom in a warmer, more gentle, glow, than the light that had reflected so harshly off of every gilded surface and every embezzled mask. The dancers who had twirled in the pit below with their dresses and their coattails trailing behind them, had now abandoned their positions and made claim to other, more discreet, corners of the palace.

None would dare to follow the spectacle that had occured before, as they bowed their heads to the new master of the court.

It was a much more subdued, calm, atmosphere than before.The chaos and pandemonium of the ball had succeeded as a new order fell upon the world inside those palace walls. In this place of calm, Amelie could feel her mind clearing, her breath calming, her heart slowing.

And with her new found peace, she could focus on her singular goal.

Find him. Find Cullen.

She marched down the length of the ballroom, passing clusters of curious nobles who peered at her from behind their masks with their mouths forming snears. She heard some whispers as she passed; murmurings, questions, judgements. _Who was she? Where was she going? Where was her mask?_

But those questions didn’t bother her, their whispers nothing but a needless distraction.

Let them whisper. Let them talk.

She didn’t care anymore.

A younger version of herself had once entered society with her shoulders thrown back, her chin level, her gaze strong, as she oozed with the confidence that her noble upbringing had instilled within her. Just as her mother had taught her.

But she had since lost all of her confidence, her determination, her pride. Yet the memories were still there, the teachings of a mother with a sharp tongue and a string of tutors with grand ideals. And as she strode towards her goal, she lived as that woman once again, the one who had the whole world ahead of her, and no doubt to gnaw away at her conviction.

Find him. Find Cullen.

She could see him, standing at the far end of the ballroom. He still wore that crimson coat lined with a trim of gold as he stood, as he always did, with pride in his stature, his shoulders square and his jaw clenched.

He didn’t look at her as she approached. He didn’t look at anyone. His back was turned to the room, to the courtiers who remained. Instead, he faced a large blue door, while his hands wrung behind their back as a foot tapped against the floor beneath him.

Anxiety, nerves, tension. 

He would never notice her, not in this state. She would have to call out to him.

Once, she would have been frightened. Once, she would have hid, and ran away, changed her mind as soon as she had seen that his back had been turned.

But not now. 

She had no mask to hide behind anymore. She had nowhere else to run.

Besides, she didn’t want to run away. She wanted him. Maker, she wanted him.

_“I'll come and find you at the end of the night, when all of this is over,” _he had said to her, but she was tired of waiting for things to happen to her, tired of being a victim of fate.

She had made a choice, out there on the balcony. Her mask had been cast aside, discarded, as she threw it into the night air where it succumbed to its fate like a golden leaf falling from a frost bitten tree.

Instead, she kept hold of that letter, the one that she had written so long ago.

Tucked into her dress once more, she kept it safe, secure, and close to her heart, where it belonged.

“Cullen?” She called out to him, and within an instant, she saw that proud stature diminish, his shoulders tensing and his hands unravelling from their tight knots.

He turned, slowly, and as he did so, his his eyes shone with a speck of gold.

"Amelie?" He asked with his voice barely louder than a whisper. "What are you…? This is…"

He turned back to the post he had abandoned, his gaze falling once again upon the door he had been watching. Then, his eyes found her again, in a dance that he repeated several times before they settled on her, and his stature softened beneath her gaze.

"Sorry," he said with a quick smile and a flustered chuckle "I've just been watching this door in case the Inq–, I mean, um...your brother, returns."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said with an awkward chuckle as she felt her cheeks beginning to burn. "I wouldn't have come if I'd known you were busy. I could just..."

Her confidence faltered, her pride diminished.

She should have just waited. Maker, she should have just waited.

How fragile her confidence had been. How quickly she could lose her convictions.

It would be a long time before she could truly be that woman again, the one who had been new to society with pride in her gait.

But one day. Maker, one day.

"It's OK!" He assured her, although as he did so, his eyes flitted back to that door even if only for a moment, before he cleared his throat and returned his attentions to her. "So um, did you...need anything?"

_Need_? No, she didn't _need_ anything. She didn't _need_ to talk to him. She didn't _need _to be here with him.

She _wanted_ to talk to him. She _wanted_ to be here with him. And she wanted to hear his response to her letter.

No, perhaps she _needed _to.

It was endlessly complicated, for such a simple question. Because her needs and her wants were now seemingly one and the same, her desires so embedded into the depths of her heart that she didn't know if she could survive without this, without him.

It had become a need, to know what he wanted to say, to know how he felt.

She could not go back to that life, the life of misery and pain, without knowing what he had to say.

She_ needed_ this. 

"You said you wanted to meet when the night was over," she reminded him with a smile. “So when I saw you, I thought I’d come over.”

"Oh...yeah," he said with a smile that mirrored her own. But then he shook his head, cleared his throat, turned towards that door again, and that smile faded. "But I um, I need to…"

He sighed, heavily, rubbing at the back of his neck with a wandering hand. "Can I come and find you later? It's just...well, the night isn't over yet, technically..."

He chuckled, but Amelie did not.

Maker, she should have just waited.

"Well, the dancing has ended, so I thought…"

"I'm not talking about the dancing," he interrupted her with his stance stiffening as his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed.. "I'm talking about…about…”

"The...assassin?” Amelie offered with her voice lowering to little more than a whisper.

Cullen’s posture stiffened even further. "How do you know about that? Did your brother tell you?"

"No,” she admitted sheepishly. “I just...heard it. He talks _very_ loudly.”

He would never have told her of his own accord, of course. He would never share any secrets with her again. Not after everything they had done to one another.

That may be a good thing for her, she had had enough of secrets, especially his.

His secrets had been a poison on her heart for too long. She would not keep them again.

"Ah yes, you're right about that," he said with a laugh that she did not share. "But yes, the err...assassin." He cleared his throat. "But...well...there's no assassin here now. Or at least, I hope not."

"No, I hope not," she said with a smile. "So, did you want to talk? Or should we–"

He fell into a dread filled silence as the door behind him burst open, accompanied by a violent gust of wind that blew in their direction.

He had taken his eyes off of it for just a moment, and yet, it was enough to fail in his duty.

But what did it matter, really? What did it matter if his eyes had been on that door, or herself?

But apparently, it did to Cullen, who shot away from her while his cheeks reddened and his eyes fell to the floor sheepishly.

"Inquisitor! I um...I'm sorry, I–" Cullen spluttered as he leapt away from Amelie and turned back towards the door he should have been watching. 

Her brother stood there, towering above them both as he marched towards them with a frown knotted into his brow.

He had abandoned his smart uniform, instead adorning a long, earth coloured coat that had been marked with specs of dirt and blood.

When she had come here, she had remarked on how he looked like the brother she had once known. 

But not anymore. He had been lost to her long ago.

As he stood in front of them, the confidence that Amelie had engineered evaporated. She was weak once again, feeble and timid; she was the woman who walked onto that balcony, not the one who left it, as she looked up into her brother's eyes, and he looked down at her. 

But then he turned away from her, ignoring her, refusing to acknowledge her.

It was as if she wasn’t even there.

“What did I miss?” He asked him with a careful, measured tone, as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just walked in on Cullen talking to Amelie for the second time. “Anything going on?”

"No! Not as such," Cullen said as he too shied away from Amelie's gaze. With both of them refusing to look at her, she suddenly regretted coming in to find him, wishing she was still on that balcony relishing in the memories of the mountain camp.

But she wasn’t. She was here, and she was alone, as Cullen spoke as if she wasn’t there.

"But thank the Maker you’re back. I was getting worried,” Cullen said with hurried tones. “The Empress will begin her speech soon, and, well, we need to know what to do."

"Wait here," he said with his voice low. "I need to have a word with the Grand Duchess."

"What do you mean? There's no time!" Cullen spluttered. "The Empress will begin her speech at–"

"_Really_ Cullen, you're telling me there's no time?" Lionel spat back at him. "Is that why you've been here flirting with my sister while an _assassin_ threatens to kill the Empress? Give me a break."

He rolled his eyes at him and stormed off, marching towards the pit at the centre of the room. 

He didn't even look at her, didn’t even seem to notice that she was there even as he uttered her name, and the contempt in his voice as he had spoken of her was impossible to miss.

Maker, that hurt than she could ever have imagined.

"Amelie, maybe you should go," Cullen said then as his voice dropped to an almost whisper, while he looked at her timidly from out of the corner of his eye. “I can come and meet you later when this is over.”

She turned to him with her eyes wide with desperation. She couldn’t go now, she’d only just mustered the courage to approach him. She may never find it again.

“What? But Cullen–” 

“I’m sorry, but it’s dangerous in here,” he told her with a sigh, whilst wary eyes watched the spot where her brother had disappeared. “I don’t know what he’s doing, but–”

“Then why are you here?” She asked him with a huff of indignation. “And where exactly am I meant to go?”

Cullen’s eyes turned back to her, and there was a frown upon his face as he looked down at her with narrowed eyes.

She sighed, her frustrations ebbing as she took a long drawn out breath.

"I'm sorry, it's just…" she paused, but only for a moment. She knew what she wanted to say, but her confidence had wavered somewhat, her pride diminished. “I’m so tired of running away and waiting to see if everyone makes it back.”

_Everyone_, she had said. But she knew, and so did he, that she only meant one person.

She couldn’t be that woman in the mountain camp, grieving and suffering as she waited to see what had happened to her brother.

“You kept me safe after Haven,” she said then with words that were little more than a murmur. “You can keep me safe now, can’t you?”

His expression betrayed his surprise, his scarred lips parting as he watched her with widened eyes. 

But it was true, every word had been true. She felt safe with him. At Haven, at the mountain camp, he had kept her safe. He had looked out for her even when she had scorned him, had patched up her coat and held her as she cried.

She would be safe with him. She would _feel_ safe with him.

And whatever happened, she didn’t want to be alone, not after everyone had left her. Claudette, Lionel, all of them had left her.

She didn’t want to leave Cullen now, she didn't want to be alone again.

Luckily for her, he sighed in defeat. 

“Yeah, I will,” he said as he massaged his forehead and sighed audibly. "Maker, Amelie, you and your brother are both as stubborn as one other.”

Perhaps he was right about that, but she wasn’t about to admit it.

He was worse. _He_ was the one who wouldn’t admit that he had done wrong. _He _was the one who was so sure that he had never done anything wrong in his life.

It had been her, only her, always her.

She had done wrong, that much was true. She had been cruel to him, hadn’t listened, had vented her frustrations at him. But so had he, he just hadn’t admitted that yet, and it was likely that he never would. 

Because right now, he couldn't even speak to her.

It was probably best that he didn’t. 

“Come one then,” Cullen told her with one of his crooked smiles. “Just stay close, in case anything happens.”

“Thank you,” she said with a smile that betrayed her relief. "And yes, I will."

Close, he had said. Stay close. But how close?

She wanted to be close, closer than they had been before when he had passed her her letter, perhaps even as close as they had been in the mountain camp.

Was it wrong of her to think in such a way? Was it wrong to want to brush her shoulder against his? To stand so that their arms were almost touching, with their hands coming to a rest so close to one another on the balustrade?

Was it wrong, to want to place her hand over his, to grace those strained knuckles with the caress of her fingers?

Close, he had said. Stay close. But probably not that close.

That wasn't what he had meant.

Close. But not as close as they had been on that night in the mountains, when they had stood in one another’s arms for a brief moment that felt like an eternity.

“What’s he doing?” Cullen muttered beneath his breath to interrupt her spiralling thoughts. She realised then that she was close enough to him to hear every whisper, every breath, ever tut and sigh and grumble of frustration. “It’s like he’s…”

She followed the direction of his gaze, peering down onto the dancefloor below where the strangest of dances was taking place in front of her, in front of all of them. It was the dance of a hunter who had in its eyeline a proud beast ready to put up a fight for its own survival. She saw her brother in the middle of the room, prowling from left, to right, to left, to right, in front of a masked figure in a long elegant gown.

Sizing her up, staring her down, pacing and posturing until she showed signs of cracking at the seams.

But this was Grand Duchess Florianne. She would not break easily.

“Wait, I get it now...I think,” Cullen said besides her with his words tumbling out of his mouth on a single breath. “It’s Duchess Florianne. The assassin. It’s her.”

Amelie wanted to ask what he meant, what she had done, but one of the dancers moved viciously, drawing her gaze back towards the dancefloor.

Lionel had her backed against a wall with no force, no violence, just his towering figure and his assertive voice. 

She stood firm and tall against his gaze, but not proud. 

In this battle of wills, she had lost.

“Get her out of my sight,” she heard him say, as his voice began to rise so that all of the court could revel in his victory. 

A guard in heavy plate armour grabbed her by the upper arms and escorted her off of the dancefloor.

The dance was over, the curtains drawing on this evening’s most fascinating entertainment, as Florianne was dragged away from the dancefloor for all the eyes of the court to witness.

“You were a good dancer, Florianne,” Lionel cried out to the entire court with his arms stretched wide while his shoulders shrugged half heartedly. His audience, his spectators, victims of his stupendous victory. “But I was better.”

The curtains were drawn on the closing act, the duchess was removed, and the Empress, who’s speech had long since been overshadowed by this interloper, this nobody from Ostwick who thought he was somebody, bowed her head to the new master of her court. And when he asked to speak with her, a request for all the court to hear, she simply nodded.

That was how the Game was played.

But it could have gone so differently. 

Florianne could have fought him. She could have wrestled back control, could have taken the victory for her own.

She could have killed him, if she had wanted. Amelie was sure of that.

It could have gone so differently, and she would have seen it unfold before her eyes. 

And they would never have had the chance to speak again, to put right the wrongs they had inflicted on one another, to be the family they had once been.

Perhaps Cullen had been right when he had told her to leave, to run to safety. She was out of her depth here, and the thought of seeing her brother defeated in front of her before they had had the chance to make amends threatened to bring a tear to her eye.

But she wasn't one for running anymore, and especially not when she stood so close to him, the one person who could make her feel safe, comforted.

It had all gone well. She could still talk to her brother again, one day, and perhaps they could make amends, one day.

If she had the courage. If he had the humility.

She sighed with relief, turning to glance towards Cullen as he stood by her side. He was only a hair breadth away from her, so close that she felt his body relax as the tension left him, heard a long held breath escape from his lips, and watched out of the corner of her eye as his shoulders slumped so dramatically that the back of his hand brushed against her own.

She felt him stiffen, just as she did. That briefest of touches had been involuntary, an accident born about by their closeness.

Stay close, he had said. Perhaps she had been too close. Perhaps she should step back, retreat.

But she didn't want to. Maker, she didn’t want to. She wasn't that same frightened, grieving woman who had cried in his arms and then fled into the night, nor the one who had penned a letter and escaped to the life that she thought was more safe, more comfortable.

So she stood her ground. She didn't recoil, didn't flinch, didn't move her hand away from his. They stayed with the back of their hands brushing against one another for some time, as Amelie stood as tall and defiant as Florianne had been in the gaze of the Inquisitor.

But just like Florianne, she was easily defeated, easily won over. Those hands moved closer as the seconds passed, her soft skin brushing against a satin glove, as a finger began to roam the back of her hand in search of one of her own.

It found her, but only with her help, as she turned her palm towards his, and clasped it in her own.

A spark shot between the two touching fingers as her heart burst into flame, while their hands danced in the space that lay between them, a dance that was more beautiful than any she had seen on this night.

She relaxed into his hold, and him into her, as the world around them appeared to slow, as the Empress’ ball descended into a denouement, and the dance between their two fingers became the only one that mattered.

"Cullen!"

His grip upon her fingers loosened, his hand pulling away from her as he rushed to answer the call of his name.

Amelie sighed. Maker, why did Lionel always have to interrupt them?

"Y-yes Inquisitor?" His cheeks were red, burnt by the flame that had roared within her heart. 

As was she. She looked away, hiding from his gaze as she brought her hands to the balustrade in front of her, where they clenched at the painted wood so tightly that her knuckles whitened and her fingers flared a deep crimson.

She couldn’t think about what had just happened, she couldn’t linger on it.

It had happened, and that was that. Her fingers had interlocked with his, their palms brushing against one another.

Maker, it had been beautiful. So, so beautiful.

"Can you go and help them out with the duchess, please?" She heard Lionel say, but she kept her gaze fixed upon her hands, afraid as she was to look at him in case she betrayed what had happened between them.

It was likely that he knew anyway, she just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching her squirm.

Maker, he must be loving this. 

"Oh, um..." she felt Cullen's gaze fall on her for a second, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him heave with a heavy sigh. "Yes, of course."

"Great, thanks Cullen," Perhaps her brother hadn't noticed. "I'd go myself but I need to go and speak with the Empress and, well, I don't trust these Orlesians enough to deal with it unsupervised."

"I wouldn’t either," Cullen said with a chuckle of comradery. "Did you think about what I said? About Gaspard? If it's stability that Orlais needs then–"

"Yes I did, and he's not getting anything from me," Lionel said with a bite to his tone. "I don't make deals with people who hurt my sister."

Amelie's gaze shot up at the sound of his words, and she turned to him with her eyes wide and lips parted as she looked at him with disbelief.

He looked back at her, their eyes, so similar and yet so different with that streak of brown towards the centre of his iris that had never become present in her own, meeting for the first time since she had been prepared to say goodbye during the final flourishes of his dance.

Before, they had been filled with hurt. But now there was something different. 

The anger, the pain, the turmoil in her heart gave way to something else, something much softer, much more forgiving, something which gave her a sprinkling of hope.

Perhaps he would forgive her. Perhaps she could too. Because she couldn't deny how much it had hurt her to think that there was an impassable distance between them, to think that they may never heal the wounds that they had torn in to one another.

Especially when he had faced the duchess, an assassin, of all things. She could have lost him again, when they hadn't even had the chance to make amends. 

It would have become one of her greatest regrets. 

They could come together again, perhaps, even if only once time had passed them by, time in which they could heal, and their sharpened tongues could soften so that only gentle words of kindness and forgiveness could be uttered from their lips.

But not now. It was too soon after the hurt, the pain, while the bitter taste of betrayal continued to poison her tongue.

So she didn’t argue as she watched him leave again, turning his back with a goodbye to Cullen, but not to her. Because they would come together again, she knew that now. 

One day.

Because she loved him, like she loved Claudette, like she may even love Cullen, if she allowed herself to.

It was finding the courage to do something about it, that was the hardest part.

She had thought that she had never known how it was to love, that it was simply not something that she was ever supposed to feel, having played second fiddle to the woman who her husband had truly loved. 

But that wasn't true.

Love wasn't a concept reserved for stories of chivalric romance, or for others with more fortunate lives. It was real, and it was messy, conflicting, confusing. It can hurt as much as it can heal, can sting as much as it can comfort.

She knew that now. She understood. She loved her family, her brother, her sister, Adelaide. She loved them all.

Now that the skies had cleared, and she had stripped the mask from her face, it was so clear to her what love really meant. 

It was that desire for Claudette to be happy, and safe. It was the anger she had felt when Lionel had hurt Jennifer, and the pain she had felt when she had hurt him beyond repair. It was the guilt she had felt when he had talked of Adelaide, when she had realised what she had done to her.

Love was not one singular feeling accessible only in a dream. It was a raging storm comprised of many emotions: fear, anger, betrayal, hurt, as well as happiness, comfort, hope.

Hope. 

So in that moment, even as he walked away from her again, she smiled.

_One day_.

"I'd better go but I'll um, well, I could…" Cullen began as he turned to her with a sheepish smile as a hand found itself to the back of his neck. "I could...come and find you afterwards, when–"

Her heart sunk at the mention of him leaving, but she smiled nonetheless.

She would see him again, he had promised as such, and she believed it with every flutter of her heart and every breath that passed her lips.

_Soon_.

"All of this is over," she finished for him with a laugh that escaped from her lips as easily as a breath. "Yes, that would be nice."

He laughed, with a chuckle that accompanied a boyish grin. "Yeah, it would be."

They smiled together, if only for a moment, a moment where they found themselves falling into perfect synchronisation without ever intending to.

“I’ll be outside,” she said as she retreated from him, with her eyes refusing to break the connection with his even as she pointed towards the door she had not long passed through. “On the balcony just there, through the second door on the right.”

He followed the direction of her pointed finger with his honey coloured eyes shining beneath the light of the chandelier. Then, he smiled at her, turning those golden eyes towards her as he gave her one, determined nod of approval.

“OK, I’ll see you–”

“CULLEN!” A voice barked at them from a fair distance away, and the pair of them turned to find her brother stood at the far end of the ballroom with his arms raised in disbelief. “Hurry up!”

Cullen jumped backwards in disbelief. 

“I should um...I won't be long," he promised her, with hurried, frantic tones. “I’ll see you on the balcony.”

“Yeah,” she said with a smile that was filled with relief, hope, happiness.

He would find her, when all of this was over.

He would find her.

And what would happen then? She would just have to find out.

When she left the ballroom once again she found herself on that same balcony that she had escaped to before. And with her mask long since discarded, and her eyes wide with hope, the first thing she noticed was a night sky filled with stars. The clouds had parted, the skies cleared; or perhaps she just hadn’t noticed how beautiful this night was.

And it really was beautiful, as the night air brought with it a crisp, cool wind that tickled at the skin of her cheeks, cooling her burning skin, slowing her beating heart.

She was at peace, and in that moment of peace, a bubble of laughter escaped from her lips, as she relinquished control over every inch of her body.

Maker, what was that?

That was...laughter, at a time such as this, after everything that had happened to her.

Laughter. It was so absurd, so ridiculous, so..._not her_.

But it was beautiful. Maker, it was beautiful

She laughed again, and as she did so, she reached up to tug at the bands and clasps that had held her hair into shape, combing her fingers through her long trellises of flaming red hair until a river the colour of sunset streamed down her back.

She threw her head back and smiled, as yet another laugh escaped from her lips while a cool breeze tickled at her burning skin and rippled through her curtain of hair.

This was how it was to be happy. This was how it was to feel free.

She realised then that she had forgotten how it could feel to be so carefree. She felt as if she was a child again, that little girl who used to run around her garden, laughing and playing with her siblings in a world full of sunshine and joy. Her hair would billow behind her like the sails of a ship rippling in the wind, just as it did now, and she'd look up at the sky and watch the birds fly through a cloudless sky.

There were no birds here now. Only stars, which made intricate patterns for her to follow as she scanned the skies above with curious eyes.

The stars were so beautiful.

It had been so long since she had stopped to appreciate such simple beauty, she certainly hadn't when she had last been on this balcony. Without her mask, without the talons of her past tearing into her soul and clutching stubbornly onto her heart, she could stop, and she could see the world for how it really was.

Beautiful.

She lowered her gaze to the world below the balustrade, where an endless abyss had swallowed her once proud mask whole.

It was down there somewhere, possibly broken, possibly not.

She laughed again. The thought of someone finding it, wondering how it had ended up there, it was funny to her, somehow.

She didn’t scold herself for laughing this time. She allowed it. Because for too long she had worn the weight of the world upon her shoulders, let it suffocate her, let it bring others into her world of despair.

But not anymore. She could cast her eyes over the moonlit sky, and laugh, because no one could stop her.

"What are you laughing at?" 

She whirled around, her smiling face turning to an expression of fear. 

She had been found, in a moment of weakness, vulnerability.

But her smile soon returned again when she saw who had found her, another laugh escaping from her lips as she met those golden brown eyes.

"Nothing," she said as Cullen’s lips formed a smile in tandem to her own. "I'm just...happy, I guess."

He laughed then, a quiet breathy chuckle. "Maker, you have such a beautiful smile."

"Cullen…" she rolled her eyes as she began to protest, but he wasn't going to allow her to.

"I mean it, Amelie," he said as he took a step closer to her. "Everything about you is beautiful, your smile, your laugh. Maker, your hair..."

She dropped her gaze as a blush spread up her neck towards her cheeks. She didn't know what to say to him. Should she argue? Should she agree?

But she didn’t have time to think of an answer. Because Cullen was on a mission, he had a task to fulfill.

And Maker, he was determined.

"I told you I'd think up a reply to your letter by the time I found you. But I'm just…" he sighed heavily as he took a step closer to her while his hand grasped at the back of his neck. "I'm not good with words."

She smiled at him sheepishly. "It's OK Cullen, you don't have–"

"I want to, Amelie," he insisted, bringing himself another step closer as he did so. 

One more step, and they could be touching. 

One more step, and they could be as close as they had been in the ballroom.

Just one more step...

"Then I realised, when our hands touched just now in the ballroom, I could…" he paused, his eyes falling to the floor beneath his feet. "Maker, I could show you."

His eyes found hers again as she looked at him with her brows furrowed with confusion. 

“What do you–?”

He took that step.

His hand fell upon her arm, his other upon her burning cheek. They were close, closer, even, then they had been when they had held hands together as they stood at the balustrade.

Their gazes locked, as they watched each other's movements with care. Amelie’s eyes scanned over the slight parting to his lips, the endless searching of his eyes, the rise and fall of his chest that fell into tandem with her own as their breaths fell into perfect synchronisation.

She knew now. She knew what he had meant.

She knew what he had come here to do.

She knew his answer.

His eyes betrayed his motives, his parted lips his true desires.

She had not expected this, had not thought even for a second that he would be so daring, so confident, so brave. The man who laboured over his words, who stumbled through his sentences and fidgeted beneath her gaze, was no longer nervous, or tense, or uncertain.

He was as fierce as a lion standing at the head of its pack, and she felt herself become enraptured by his confidence, his pride, his strength.

She knew now what he had come here to do, he had made it so clear.

She knew what his answer was to be.

So with one step closer towards him, she signalled for him to give her his answer, to respond to the words she had written so long ago.

They fell into step with one another, like partners preparing to begin their dance.

Together, they took a deep breath. Together, they brought their lips close to one another, so that only a slither of air separated skin from skin. Together, they closed their eyes and shut out the world around them.

In that moment, with her eyes closed to the world, she felt his lips close around her own, as through their kiss, they came together beneath a sky filled with stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're here!!!! YAY. You can now redeem your slow burn points for a prize (and that prize is cullen smooches)
> 
> Ok so the reason I got that out so quickly was because I'm going to be needing to take most of September away from updating this because of personal things and also i need a break lol. So I'll be out for a few weeks i'm afraid, before coming back with the last part of the winter palace (thank god) and beyond, and we'll be back to regular updates every other week. I'll be around on my social media during that time and will gives updates on those for when I plan to return.
> 
> Thanks for your patience and your support, it means a lot to me ❤


	27. Moonlit Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as Amelie and Cullen finally put aside their reservations and act on their long held feelings for one another, the ball begins to draw to a close, and the knowledge that they may soon have to say goodbye weighs heavy on their hearts.

A kiss could tell a thousand stories, and the one she shared with Cullen beneath a pale moonlight told the most beautiful story that she had ever heard.

HIs lips were still pressed against her own, the scar on his upper lip rough against her smooth skin, whilst the hint of what had once been a beard brushed against her burning cheeks. In his arms, she became devoured by a tidal wave of all the emotions and feelings that had harbouring within them both, as they burst out of him with all the passion of the belladonna of an Orlesian opera. 

It had started as a gentle kiss, born from a kind heart, and an awkwardness that made him somewhat reluctant, somewhat reserved . But then it had deepened, their hunger driven by a desire, a need, to make up for the time that they had lost.

Because of her. Because she had not acted. Because she had run from him in his tower at Skyhold and left him with little more than a scrap of parchment and an awkward kiss on his cheek.

It had just been a kiss on the cheek, nothing more.

And yet, it had been.

And now, to make up for what she had been too frightened to do before, she was the one who had deepened their kiss, who turned that hunger, that desire, into need, into passion. It had been her who brought a hand to the back of his neck, who had urged him to come closer, who had flashed a tongue against his lip, an invitation to give her more.

Because it had been her who failed to act, who had run from him.

Not anymore.

And in his arms, she felt _alive_.

She had never experienced a moment like this, she had never felt so exhilarated as she did when she felt the touch of his skin against her own and tasted the sweat upon his lips. 

These feelings, these emotions, this unimaginable sense of joy; it was terrifying in its ferocity, and perplexing in its unfamiliarity, but she did not run. 

She would not run.

It was unfamiliar to her, this strange collection of feelings one may call love. But it didn’t frighten her. 

How could it, when it felt so good? 

She had once felt that such an expression of feelings would stem only from a loss of control, of composure. But Maker, she had been wrong.

She had chosen this, this kiss, Cullen, and he had chosen her. 

For once in her life, she was in a place where she wholeheartedly wanted to be.

This _was_ control. For once, _she_ was in control. No one else.

This was _her_ life, and how she wanted to live it.

With a gasp of air, they came apart a lot more reluctantly than they had started, their lips still touching by a hair's breadth as she opened her eyes to find him already watching her.

The hand on her cheek lowered, but only so that his fingers could caress her jawline before settling beneath her chin, where he held her with his hands warm against her cold skin.

The night air was cool and crisp, but in his presence, she didn’t shiver, or feel the bite of a chill breeze against her cheeks. She was nothing but content in the arms of Cullen, and nothing could concern her, could harm her.

But there was a hint of hesitation in his eyes, uncertainty in the frown upon his lips. She felt his grip upon her arm loosen, the touch beneath her chin ebb away.

Her contentment appeared to be at threat, her peace beginning to shatter.

“What is it?” She asked him, with her voice beginning to tremble with uncertainty as doubt began to creep into her mind.

Was he regretting this? Was this some kind of mistake?

“I...um…” he whispered against her parted lips. “Was that too much? I’m sorry, I–”

She laughed then, partly with relief but also with amusement at his awkwardness. “No, Cullen. It was perfect."

She closed that gap again, planting the lightest of kiss against his lips that ended with a smile that they both shared. 

No second thoughts. No regrets.

"Right, good!" He said with a sigh of relief that fell into a gentle laugh. “I’m sorry, that was just...um...really nice.”

She laughed again, as they shared a moment of relief, of embarrassment, of joy, as they held one another so gently that the slightest of breezes could have torn them apart.

But the world was still, the wind dropping to little more than a tickle against her cold skin, and so they remained together, with their hands resting upon one another's cheeks and their eyes locked in an everlasting gaze.

"It was," she said with a whisper spoken against his lips, as they came together once again to share a kiss that was gentle, and slow, and lingering as skin connected with skin and their breath merged into one.

Maker, those lips were so much softer than she could ever have imagined.

“It feels like a dream,” he spoke against the skin of her lips. But then he pulled away suddenly, looking at her with horror in his eyes. “A good one, of course! Not a bad one!”

She laughed then, a chuckle that was little more than a breath. “I’m glad about that!”

“Right yes, I just…” he said with a chuckle that did not allay his look of fear, nor did it bring him closer to her, as he had been before. A distance was between them; something kept him a step away from her. “I just didn’t think I’d see you again, after you’d left. I thought when I saw your note that that was a goodbye.”

“Well, I’ll admit, it was,” she said as her eyes fell to the floor as a tide of red passed over the skin of her cheeks. “I’d have regretted leaving without at least saying goodbye, and thank you, and, well, tell you how much your kindness meant to me. I just...I don’t know how to say these things in person.”

“That makes two of us,” he said with another chuckle that was as sweet as a song. “There’s many things I regret in life, and not telling you how I felt before you left is one of them.”

“No Cullen, don’t have any regrets,” she insisted as she reached out to hold his hand in her own, their fingers performing an intricate dance as they intertwined with one another.. “We’re here now, that’s what matters.”

“Yes, you’re right,” he said with a smile as he came towards her once again and clutched at her other hand, holding them out in front of her as he captured her gaze within his own. “And now you can come back to Skyhold with us, and we can make up for all of this time we’ve lost and, look, we have this siege I’m planning but–”

She looked up into those eyes that shone like pools of molten gold, that glistened like the candles in the ballrooms chandelier, that dazzled like the mask she had once worn, and she wanted to say yes. Desperately.

But something held her back. 

The words spoken by her brother as they confronted one another beneath the glaring lights of the ballroom’s chandelier.

_"Amelie, I know you've had a hard time. But you can't keep taking it out on other people. Not me, not Claudette, not Adelaide..."_

Adelaide. Poor Adelaide, she had left her all alone. In the company of her parents, no less.

She had left her, again, after all of these years where she had taken everything out on her: her sorrow, her misery, her bitterness towards a cruel world.

She had to go back. It was what was right. She couldn’t leave her.

She had to fix this, to make up for everything she had done to her.

She owed it to her. 

“Cullen, I can’t, I have to…” she began, but she soon trailed off.

That was wrong. _She_ was wrong.

She didn’t _have_ to go home. She didn’t _have_ to go to Adelaide, to make things right with her.

She_ wanted_ to. She wanted to see her daughter again, to watch her play with her cousins, to eat cake and strawberries with her. She wanted to heal those bonds, to make up for what she had done. Because otherwise, that hole in her heart would never heal.

She couldn’t run from it anymore. 

She had to get her back, before she lost her forever. 

“Cullen I’m sorry,” she said then with a sigh. “But I want to go home, Adelaide is waiting for me.”

“Oh, of course…” he said with a wounded look as he let go of her hands and sighed with defeat. But then, there was a flicker of light in his eyes, and the hint of a smile at the corner of one mouth. “You could...always go and get her and bring her to Skyhold?”

Amelie bit her lip. “Cullen...I don’t know…”

“I know you said no before but, Skyhold is different, it’s safe,” he told her as he watched her with a firm gaze and brought a hand up to rest upon her cheek. “I promise, it isn’t like Haven. You’ll be safe there.”

She squirmed beneath his gaze, her fingers picking nervously at the hem of her sleeve.

She wanted to, but…

A thousand poisoned thoughts began to flood her mind. What if something _did_ happen, just like it did at Haven? What if something happened en route? What if they got there and they fell out, argued all the time, just like they did at home?

What if seeing her put Cullen off of her? What would he think about Amelie’s daughter? What would he think about her even _having _a daughter? A living reminder of the man who had laid claim to her long before they had even met.

Would he hate that? Would it threaten what they had together?

But she wanted to go to Skyhold, to be with him. Maker, she wanted to.

Then again, there was the matter of her brother. 

He wouldn’t want her there, not after everything they had said to one another.

She sighed heavily, and after a long period of silence, Cullen took that as his answer.

“Well, maybe we can write to each other,” he suggested with a smile that was strained as he backed away in defeat. “How about I tell you when we’ve returned from Adamant, and maybe you could visit then? It will be safe, Amelie, I promise.”

She looked up at him, at those eyes the colour of honey, at those lips ravaged by a scar.

How could she say no to him? How could she _not_ want to see him again?

“Yeah, I think I’d like that,” she said with an uneasy tone.

She wasn’t sure, right now. But perhaps with time, she would be.

Time. That was all that she needed, what they all needed.

Time. Time to spend with Adelaide, time to reflect, time to heal from the divides that had ruptured within her family.

Then, she could return to them, to Skyhold, to that life of freedom.

She just needed time.

“Amelieeeeeee!” An interruption in the form of her sister’s sweet cry, hailed to her from the direction of the ballroom. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Where have you _been_?”

Amelie shot away from Cullen as she turned to find her sister, but she hadn’t been quick enough.

They had been spotted, she could tell, from the wide eyes horror in Claudette’s eyes and the shaking of her lip as she tried to speak. “Oh! I’m sorry, was I…”

She knew. Oh Maker, she knew.

Cullen’s face was a storm as he turned to meet her sister’s gaze, but as she placed a hand on his upper arm, and instruction to retreat, he obeyed.

He sighed with resignation as he brought a hand to his temples and massaged the skin of his hairline, bowing his head as he passed a glance to Amelie.

He had retreated, this was her battle to fight.

“It’s OK,” she said to her as she forced a smile from amidst her burning cheeks. “I’m sorry Claudette, I shouldn’t have left you–”

“It’s fine!” She squeaked with an overly enthusiastic grin. “It’s fine! I just wanted to see if you still wanted to go home, but…”

She looked at Cullen again, but he dared not look at her, and Amelie dared not look at either of them.

Oh Maker, she could only imagine what Claudette was thinking right now. She probably thought the worst of her, probably thought she was some kind of...some kind of…

“Anyway!” She brought her hands in front of her and clasped them tightly as her smile grew even wider, even less sincere. “I’m just going to...um, go.”

Guilt began to wash over Amelie, as she watched her sister back away slowly, with one foot falling behind the other as she kept that smile painted upon her face.

“Wait, Claudette,” she called to her with a sigh. “Don’t go by yourself, I’ll come with you.”

“No! It’s fine!” She insisted with a dramatic wave of her hands. “It’s fine! Rylen offered to take me home.”

Amelie turned to her with a start. “He did?”

“Oh he _did_,” she told her with a dreamy sigh. “Not in that way! He’s such a gentleman, Amelie. And yet, so _rugged_. But it’s all innocent! I promise!”

Claudette assured her with a grin as she giggled to herself with a hand raised to cover her mouth as she scurried towards Amelie. “Although _he’s_ not so bad himself. You should _definitely_ ask him to dance, if he hasn’t asked you already, of course. Has he? Has he asked? You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Claudette!” Amelie cried a little too loudly, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cullen redden once again. “No, he hasn’t.”

“Oh well, don’t wait for him to ask, ask him!” Claudette said as she scowled up at Amelie’s frown. “Go on! Don’t be so boring!”

“I’m not boring!” she protested, but her words began to falter as she fell victim to uncertainty. “Am I?”

Yes, perhaps she _was_ boring. Her life was boring, and she had been content in it. Before the Conclave had exploded into a ball of fire, and before the skies had been torn asunder, and taken her family with it, she had been content with her normal life, with her brother just being her brother, and her sister being young and innocent, and safe from the horrors of the world. 

Amelie had been safe in her noble life in Ostwick, with only the same few people coming and going, and her library filled with books to read over tea, and the same debates happening day in and day out with Adelaide, and her mother telling the same stories every week.

Then, the world had been set alight, and none of them had been untouched by its flames.

Their lives had changed, and it had stressed her out; the sense of unknowing, these moments where her brother had shown himself to be someone she didn’t even know, when her sister had fallen victim to noble matchmaking and had run off with a soldier.

Then, Amelie had pushed them away as she had tried to fend off that change, to keep them all safe, content, _boring_.

But there was no going back now. Her brother had seemingly committed himself to sundering himself from his former life. Her sister was a woman of society now, one who Amelie had given the freedom to do as she pleased, and who had revelled in it. 

Their lives were far from boring now. She had been there when Haven had been under siege, had fled from the wings of a dragon and the lick of its fire as she sheltered on a snow covered mountainside. She had trekked through the mountains in search of sanctuary, with little to eat and even less hope, and had reached Skyhold with her once porcelain skin weathered by the elements, and her heart battered by the grief, the pain, the budding of an unexpected romance.

Her life wasn’t boring anymore. She could mourn the loss of that life all she wanted, but there was no going back now.

And if she was to be honest, the part of her that missed her old, boring life, had grown smaller every day, and was now lying somewhere in the palace grounds with her discarded mask.

Her life wasn’t boring anymore. There was no fighting it, so she should revel in it.

“Well, perhaps I could…” she said beneath her breath, too low for Cullen to hear. But Claudette’s shriek was loud enough for the entire palace to jump out of their skin. 

“Yes! You should!” She cried as she launched herself at Amelie and smothered her with a hug. “Good luck! I’ll see you back at the villa, I guess?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you there,” she told her with a smile that mirrored Claudette’s delight as she watched her sister embrace the golden rays of light that shone from within the still bustling ballroom.

But as Amelie began to relax, as Cullen began to look less red beside her, Claudette turned her heel suddenly.

“Wait!” She cried as she circled back around to meet their gazes with a more solemn air than before. “Do any of you know where Lionel is? It’s just that I haven’t seen him much this evening, and it’s been such a long time. It would be nice to talk together properly.”

Amelie lowered her gaze away from her. “No sorry, I don’t.”

“Oh,” Claudette said with a bite of her lip, while guilt threatened to overwhelm Amelie. “Oh well, worth a try.”

She shrugged nonchalantly, before turning slowly to once again face the doorway to the ballroom, and leaving the darkness of the night behind her, and the two lovers who burned with their shame.

“Well…” Cullen said beneath his breath once she had vanished from sight. “That was awkward.”

Amelie turned to him, noting that his cheeks had begun to lose their colour, and that the sweat on his forehead had begun to dissipate.

Then, in spite of the embarrassment that she had felt when Claudette had spotted them, in spite of how uncomfortable Cullen looked next to her, in spite of the fact that her siblings knowing about her and Cullen_ could_ cause a problem for her, she laughed.

She couldn’t help it, she laughed.

“That was _really_ awkward,” she said as she descended into a fit of giggles. “I’m sorry, that’s just how my sister is.”

“Well, that was one way to be introduced,” he said with a chuckle of his own. “But I do feel a little bit guilty.”

“Why’s that?” Her heart began to race. Was that regret at what they had done? Or at having been found out?

“Well...I know where your brother is,” he said as he brought a hand to the back of his neck and stared up into the skies above. “I just didn’t want to tell her because, well, I didn’t know if she knew about…”

He paused then, and the pair of them fell into an uncomfortable silence that was filled with an unspoken agreement that they both knew what one another was talking about. Somehow.

Because was it not obvious? What else could it be?

“That was probably for the best,” Amelie said eventually with a harsh sigh.

She refused to meet Cullen's gaze, instead looking at the sleeve of her dress as she clasped at her upper arm with her other hand.

But she felt it nonetheless, burning into her soul with all the intensity of a dragon's fire.

"Ok, I don’t want to speak out of turn, but..." He said with a sigh as he rubbed at the back of his neck with a fidgeting hand. “Did something happen between you two?”

Maker, did he know?

She composed herself and feigned ignorance. "What makes you say that?"

"Well…" he was hesitating again, less sure of himself. Or perhaps he didn't want to say how he had felt, what he had presumed.

She had once told him that he was too presumptuous, had once chastised him for it.

Then, she had fallen for him nonetheless, as presumptuous as he may be.

"He said something about Gaspard," he said then after a moment's thought. "Did the Duke say something to you when you were talking before?"

Perhaps he didn’t know Orlesian, or he hadn’t heard,

But Maker, where did she even begin?

As she stood in silence, Cullen drifted closer to her, his hand finding her own as it continued to grasp at her upper arm. She felt herself relax beneath his touch, her breath escaping her as the tension began to leave her body.

"Yes, he did," she told him with a sigh. "He spoke of Emilie. She was my husband’s first wife, and they both knew Gaspard fairly well. They married for love, but she died, and he never healed from it. Gaspard knew that, and knew that she was the one that he had truly loved, never me..."

She stopped then as she began to run out of breath, but once she did so, she felt herself seize up, her body beginning to tense once again as she squirmed out of his hold.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I just told you all of that,” she said with a shake of her head. _Compose yourself, Amelie_. “I just find you so...easy to talk to.”

“Well, I wish I could say the same,” he said with a laugh that was just as uncomfortable as her own. “But the truth is, I’ve been trying to talk to you all night and, well, we saw how that went.”

“Yeah well, you can blame my brother for that,” she told him with a roll of her eyes. “My siblings have a thing about getting in the way.”

It had been a flippant remark, nothing more, a sly comment on the back of hours of pain on both of their parts.

So the sincerity in Cullen’s eyes shocked her, the distaste at her scorn.

“I don’t want to speak out of turn here,” he said then, and his voice stronger, more sure, than it had been since they had shared their kiss. “But you know how you said you didn’t want to leave Skyhold without saying goodbye to me? In case you never saw me again?”

She turned to him with her brows furrowed. “Yes?”

“Well, likewise, I think you need to sort out whatever happened between the two of you before you leave tonight,” Cullen said to her with his tone level and he spoke with surety and a confidence he had yet to display to her. “I don’t want to intrude, but like you said to me earlier, you may regret it if you don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, you were at Haven, and you saw what happened here tonight,” he told her with his arms folded across his chest. “After this, we’ll be besieging a fortress held by an army of demons and Grey Wardens. Something could happen to him, and you may regret not taking the chance to heal from whatever happened.”

Amelie lowered her gaze as she felt herself become overwhelmed by shame.

It was easy for her to forget just how dangerous their work was, stuck as she was in her quaint, boring life in Ostwick. It was easy to forget how close he had been to death on so many occasions.

It was so easy, when it wasn’t happening to her, when she could go back to her boring life and leave the rest of them to face the horrors of the world alone.

She thought she had lost him once after the Conclave, and then once again after Haven. But he had come back after both of those, proving himself to be a survivor even when all the odds were stacked against him. 

But the next time that something happened, could be the one where he didn’t, where there’s no cry to signal his return, no cheers at the return of their exalted herald, their Inquisitor.

Nothing. 

The grief that had overwhelmed her at the camp in the Frostback Mountains, the ones that had brought her to Cullen’s side in the first place, they would never fade, never dissipate.

Richard Hargrove had grieved the loss of his wife for his entire life, had whispered her name on his deathbed even as Amelie stood by him. She had never blamed him for that, even when it had hurt.

How long would she grieve the loss of her brother? How long would she live with the guilt at having never even tried to heal the divide between them?

“I have siblings myself, you know,” Cullen continued. “I only recently responded to their letters, and only because I saw the two of you together at Haven, and how heartbroken you were when you thought your brother had...wasn’t coming back. It just made me think about what would happen if that was me that never came home, how they must worry about me every day that they don’t hear from me.”

Amelie's eyes snapped up to find his. "You have siblings too?"

Maker, why had that surprised her so much?

He had never spoken about them, never once mentioned them. But then again, there was so much about him she didn’t know.

She cared for him, perhaps even loved him, and hadn’t even known such a simple fact.

"Yeah, I do," he told her with a shrug. “And I wish I was anywhere near as close to them as you are with yours.”

Those words struck her more than she could have ever imagined.

After everything that had happened, it amazed her that anyone could look at her relationship with her siblings and think that they were a model to follow, something to admire, to respect.

After everything, he could say those words to her.

After everything, she could believe it.

Because there had been a time when they were perhaps the very model of a family, when they had been inseparable, even. There had been a time when she had simply rolled her eyes at her brother’s misdemeanours, cursing him for being so annoying, rather than scolded him for them as she would scold Adelaide.

There had been a time when they had been friends, when they had loved one another in spite of their flaws. When they had understood one another, when they had listened, cared.

They could have that again, perhaps.

But not if she didn’t_ try_ to make things right.

"Maker, you're right," she said with a sigh as she bit at her lip with regret. 

But where was he? He had left her long ago without even uttering a word.

He didn’t want to see her. Did he?

Possibly not, but he _had_ defended her, protected her, fought for her, even after everything they had said to one another. 

Perhaps he didn’t want to see her. But she wanted to see him.

So where _was_ he?

Cullen. He knew. He had refused to tell Claudette, but he may tell her.

Her eyes snapped back to Cullen's, and this time, she was less unsure, less uncertain. She was bold, sharp, and driven.

She knew what she wanted, what she _needed_.

"Cullen, you said you knew where he was," she reminded him. "Can you tell me? Please?"

"Of course," he said as his lips formed a crooked smile that betrayed his pride. "He's on the balcony at the end of the hall."

"Thank you Cullen!" She cried and, without much thought, she leant him to kiss him on the cheek, just as she had done on her final day in Skyhold all those months ago.

But this was different. This wasn't awkward, or stifled, or laden with nerves and regret.

It was sudden. It was easy.

There was no thinking, no lingering, no stopping to consider what she had done.

That was just how it was in his presence now, easy, straight forward, safe.

And so, as a blush spread across his cheek from the spot where she had kissed him, she turned her back on him, desperate to find her brother.

_Wait…_

There was something else that she may regret not doing, something that she had scoffed at when Claudette had suggested it before.

But if she didn’t ask, she would never know..

"Cullen, when I'm done, why don't we have a dance together?" She asked him without even stopping for breath. "After all, this is a ball that we're attending."

Cullen froze in front of her. His cheeks drained of all colour, his eyes grew wide, his lips parted.

"I...um…" he began with a shudder to his voice. "No, thank you."

Amelie's heart stopped, as if it had been captured in the biting frost of a winter morning.

"Oh."

Maker, what had she done? 

_Claudette!_ Maker, she was going to have firm words with that girl.

"No! I didn't mean to–" he said then in a sudden outburst of regret. "Maker's breath. I've been asked that question so many times tonight, that I'm now rejecting it automatically."

Amelie smiled at him uncomfortably. 

She should never have asked. Maker's sake, Claudette...

No, this wasn't Claudette's fault. She _had_ to stop blaming other people for her problems. 

"I just...don’t dance," he said then with an apologetic smile. "I've never really attended balls before."

"Ah right," she nodded solemnly as she pursed her lips to hide her discomfort. "It's fine, I just thought I'd ask."

The two fell into an uncomfortable silence that seemed to last an age.

Of course, why would a soldier frequent balls? Did he even know how to dance?

She didn't know. But then there was a lot she didn't know about him.

Maker, she barely knew him.

And yet, she cared for him, kissed him, had asked him to _dance_, and had been hurt when he had said no.

At the very least, it made the prospect of leaving to find her brother a little less daunting.

"Anyway, I'd better go and find my brother before he disappears again," she said with a chuckle that fell into another bout of silence.

Mercifully this was a lot shorter than the last.

"Yes, right," he said with a shake of his head and a smile that was crooked and uneven. "He's on the–"

"Balcony at the end of the hall," she finished on his behalf with a smile that equalled his. "Thank you."

She didn't kiss his cheek this time, not after what he had done just now.

_Why had he rejected her? Why had he not wanted to dance?_

She shook her head, emptying her mind of those thoughts.

This wasn't the time. She could worry about him later.

For now, she had to focus on the task at hand, the door at the end of the long hallway that many would have thought was closed if not for the smallest of cracks that let in a slither of moonlight.

He was out there somewhere, on the other side of that door.

She had to find him.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, her stomach tying itself in knots. Her nerves were back, her anxiety making itself known, her fluttering heart filling with dread.

She looked behind her, at the spot where she had left Cullen.

She had felt safe there, comforted, at peace. She could go back, could stay with him forever, could forget about making amends with her brother.

That would perhaps be easier, if he had not rejected her for that dance.

And so she went forward, with that same underlying fear that had driven her to ask Cullen for a dance, the same one that had caused her to write that letter all those months ago. 

It was a fear much greater than the one that had tried to push her away, back into the arms of Cullen, perhaps even back home, back to safety. It was the fear of regret, that she would leave having never had a chance to say the words she wanted to say, that she would live the rest of her life wondering “_what if?”_.

_"I will not die having spent my life wondering what if. I will not lose my one chance to live the life that I want to live."_

She hadn’t understood when Lionel had said those words in the garden, but she did now, and at the very least, she could thank him for it, even if he refused to hear it.

So she moved onward, passed the courtiers who remained even at the tail end of the Empress' ball, passed the dancefloor where Lionel had claimed his victory, and passed people from his Inquisition, who watched her like a hawk watches its prey.

Let them watch. Let them see that she at least tried to heal the divide that had ruptured between them.

No matter what they had said, no matter what they had done, she could at least try.

Just like when she had asked Cullen to dance, she had tried, even if the answer wasn't what she had hoped, she had tried. 

At least she would not live in regret.

She would not live a life of regret. Not anymore.


	28. The Last Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowing that this may be the last time she sees the Inquisition for some time, Amelie only has a small amount of time left to make amends and draw her conflict with her brother to a close, if he will allow her to. But it’s not just him she will have to say goodbye to.

Amelie shivered, as a chill breeze blew in through the smallest of cracks between two doors.

It hadn’t been cold when she had been with Cullen, when she had basked in the warmth from his golden brown eyes and become enveloped in his strong arms. But at this end of the palace, the chill was inescapable.

Perhaps it was because of the task that lay ahead of her.

She took a deep breath of a stale air that was punctuated by the hint of a fresh breeze, and she stepped forward, peering through a small crack that had been left between the two doors.

It was dark outside, far darker than it had been on that balcony with Cullen, where the moons had graced them with an eerie, iridescent light and his golden brown eyes had lit a way to her heart.

But in that darkness, she saw something. A flash of red, a river of blue, and not too long after, a hint of gold that reflected the light of the moons. 

She stepped away with a start, her breath catching in her throat.

Red, blue, gold. She had seen those colours so many times on that night. 

It was the colours of the Inquisition’s uniform, brilliant and proud amongst a court filled with the golds and deep blues of Orlais. Cullen had worn his on the balcony, as he stood tall and proud against a jet black sky, as he had taken her into his arms and kissed her beneath the stars.

She cursed to herself. She couldn’t think of Cullen right now, he would only distract her.

She took a deep breath as she placed her hand upon the door, ready to prise it open and step out into the cold of the night.

“Ow! You stood on my foot!” She froze, as a man called out from beyond the doors, one that made her jump out of her skin and clasp a hand to her mouth. “Maker’s sake, why do you have to have such big feet?”

Memories flooded through her mind of a garden embraced by moonlight, of whispers that had been far too loud and gazes that were far too telling.

_Dorian._ He was there too. Damn him, why was he _always_ there?

Maker, and she could hear _every _word they said. She wasn’t going to like this. She just knew it.

She tore herself away from the door, or at least, from the gaze of the stars in the night sky.

They couldn’t see her. They couldn’t know that she had heard.

But she couldn’t bring herself to leave, not just yet.

She had so much she wanted to say, so much that she had to do before she left, and before her brother was lost to her again.

But _he_ was there. 

“Well you know what they say about big feet?” She heard her brother say, and despite the discomfort she was feeling, she felt her curiosity beginning to take over.

“Don’t–”

“Big shoes,”

Amelie rolled her eyes, as she heard a howl of laughter erupt from the balcony, one she knew all too well.

Someone had to laugh at his jokes, even if it was himself.

“Right, I’m leaving,” 

_Shit!_

Amelie jumped backwards and away from the door, darting towards a lone table in the corner of the room where she pretended to be interested in a vase filled with flowers, her fingers tracing the outline of a rose petal that looked like it was about to fall.

They were beautiful flowers, she had to admit. Yet who here had paid any attention to them?

“Before I go,” Maker, she could _still_ here them. Did they not know how to be discrete? “Did you ever speak to your sister?” Amelie froze, with her finger still on that falling petal. “I know you said you would when I saw you in the garden but, I didn’t know if you’d had the chance.”

She should move further away, she shouldn’t listen in. 

But they were talking about _her_, she _had_ to know what they were going to say.

“Yeah, I did, but…” his words fell into a silence that filled Amelie’s heart with shame.

There was a weight to his words that would perhaps go unnoticed by some, but not to her. 

But she couldn’t understand. What was he talking about? 

They _had_ talked. They had said so many things to one another, things that hurt, things that were true, things she needed to hear and things she hadn’t wanted to.

Yet there was hesitation in his voice, and a knowing sigh from Dorian.

What was it that they _hadn’t_ said?

“Ah right,” he said with a clear of his throat. “Well, like I said before, if people are going to be...difficult...then maybe they don’t deserve to know the real you.”

“Hm, yeah,” she heard her brother say, not sounding entirely convinced.

Amelie hid her face with shame, as her cheeks burned even brighter than before.

Disappointment was in his voice, hope faded with every word that he spoke.

She had done this to him.

That was her.

All of those things they had said to one another, had led to this.

Maker, would he ever forgive her?

A creak behind her precipitated the loud roar of an opening door, and Amelie, still burning with shame, ducked her head away from view as she once again turned her attention to that vase of flowers, that petal that was about to fall.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and they were heavy, quick, determined as they passed her by without even hesitating.

Maker, she hoped he hadn’t seen her.

She looked back at the door to the balcony, which had been swung open in defiance at those courtiers who shuddered from the new wave of cold air that now blasted into the ballroom.

What _had _they been talking about? 

She wanted to know. She _had_ to know. 

She had to know if he would ever forgive her, if she would ever get her brother back.

Not if she stood here forever, in a dark corner of the palace hidden from view.

He would never forgive her if she didn’t at least try.

She looked back at those flowers in their vase, at the petal that hung on by a thread. A breeze trickled in from those open doors, and in its presence, the petal danced, falling through the air before coming to a rest on the table below.

She sighed as it did so. She couldn’t stay here and watch the petals fall, she had to go to him.

But she was nervous. Maker, he didn’t want to speak to her, he didn’t want her to find him.

Which was exactly why she had to, because she may never have the chance again.

She had to try, at least.

She turned back to those doors and marched towards them, where a night sky filled with stars once again greeted her with open arms.

But Lionel did not.

“Amelie! What the–” he greeted her with a cry of alarm and a look of horror that was followed by an exasperated sigh. “Maker’s sake, what the hell are you doing here?”

Amelie lowered her gaze, as she wrung her hands with discomfort. “I just...I wanted to talk to you before I left…"

Her words fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Maker, what had she been thinking?

WIth her gaze still on her wringing hands, she heard him sigh, as he moved out of her path and turned to face the skies above with his hands grasping at the balustrade at the edge of the balcony.

“Amelie, I don’t have the time nor the energy for another lecture, so–”

“I’m not here to lecture you,” she burst out with desperation. She didn't want to leave, she didn't want to be pushed away.

He had to know why she was here. He had to know what she wanted.

He had to know that she was here in good faith. 

With a sigh, she uttered the words that were so hard for her to say. “I came here to apologise.”

She held her breath as her eyes came up to find him.

He was still facing away, out onto that endless abyss.

There was the briefest of moments where he turned to look at her, but not for long.

He was stiff and awkward, his hands clutching at the balustrade as she watched him clench and unclench his jaw.

“What for?” He asked her then, with a voice that was as cold as the chill that bit at her skin.

Oh Maker...

He knew. He knew what she had come here to say, what she had come to make amends for.

He knew. But he wanted her to say it, to acknowledge it, to admit where she had done wrong.

And Maker, was that hard. It wasn’t something that she did very often, own up to her mistakes. Trevelyan's didn't do that, it wasn't in their nature.

Perhaps this was the moment to change that.

The world had been set alight the moment that the Conclave had erupted into flame, and in this new world, where everything was so precarious, she could not let her pride get in the way of her relationship with her siblings, with her family, with the people that she loved.

Not anymore.

She breathed deeply and steadied her fidgeting hands.

Pride in her posture, courage in her convictions, that was what her Mother had always taught her.

“I’m sorry that I was angry at you,” she began with all of her strength. “I’m sorry that I said all of those things to you, and that I refused to listen to you, and that I judged you and your...um...choices.”

“It’s not a…” he began to argue, but with a quick glance in her direction, he sighed with defeat. 

There would be no more arguing tonight, it seemed.

Or at least for now.

“Thank you," he said plainly, and once he did so, he let them fall into a silence that was heavy and oppressive, as oppressive as the chaos and the noise of the ball had been before his performance had brought it to an abrupt end.

She didn’t know if she should say something else. She didn’t know what she was meant to do now.

Perhaps she should leave. Perhaps that was all.

Perhaps he had nothing else to say to her.

“Amy," he stopped her with a call that was shaky and uncertain, as he came to find her with those hazel eyes that were so like her own and yet, so different. "I'm sorry too."

Maker, she couldn't believe it.

She thought that that was it, that she would say her piece and it would be over. 

Perhaps one day he could forgive her, but not just yet.

He was stubborn, proud, just like her and yet, somehow a little bit worse.

There hadn't been much he had had to apologise for, he had always gotten with so much.

Yet he had done so.

“I should have written to you after the Conclave," he continued as he cursed himself beneath his breath. "You would never have had to come and find me, and then you'd never have been left to deal with all my problems. Maker, you should _never _have had to deal with any of that."

“But it’s OK,” Amelie protested weakly. They were talking, apologising, healing. He had to know that she wanted to do better, she wanted to help him. “I didn’t mean it before, what I said. I _want _to help–”

“Amy, look at what this has done to us,” he said to her as he stared at her from beyond the gulf that had opened up between them. “It’s been eating away at us this whole time, and it’s my fault. I should never have let you get involved in my problems...”

“But I can help,” she all but pleaded with him. “I meant it when I said you could tell me anything, that you can trust me.”

He had to know. He _had_ to.

He could trust her, she was the sister he had always known, had always loved.

He could trust her again. He had to know that.

He _had_ to.

“Please tell me what’s bothering you,” she pleaded with a sigh. “I don’t want to have to find out by myself again.”

She hadn’t meant to allude to what had happened before, but she realised what she had done as soon as she saw the guilt began to swell in the shudder of his eyes, in the burn of his cheeks, in the strain of his lips.

He knew what she meant. She had left it unspoken, but he knew. The tavern, the Chantry, the palace garden, he knew how those moments had hurt her, how his secrets had revealed themselves to her, how they had eaten away at her.

They both knew.

He shook his head. “No Amy, I’m not dragging you into my problems again.”

“But…”

“No, Amy,” he insisted with a firm tone. “It’s not fair on you, and this is something I have to deal with myself.”

She wanted to argue, she wanted to ease that doubt that was so clearly in his mind. She wanted him to trust her with his secrets, she wanted to help him shoulder his burdens.

She wanted him to know that he could trust her, but perhaps this was how she earnt that trust.

_“Why don’t you just keep your nose out of other people’s business?”_

She back away, retreating with a step back towards those doors.

If that was what he wanted, if that was what would bring them together again, then so be it.

Maker, she wanted to help. But she had learnt from all of this that, sometimes, it was best not to.

_Let him go._

“Anyway, you have your own issues to deal with,” he said then with a clear of his throat. That conversation was over now, there were no arguments to be had. “Like telling Cullen how you feel about him.”

The world darkened, the stars that littered the sky extinguishing one by one as his words seeped their way into her thundering heart.

Cullen? What did he know of her relationship with Cullen?

_Everything_, she imagined.

Amelie’s throat closed up as she spluttered and choked on his words. “I...I don’t know what you–”

“Don’t argue with me, Amelie Louise,” he said with a cackle of laughter that felt so out of place with the conversation they had had before. But it was music to her ears to hear him laugh again. 

It had been too long since she had heard him laugh like that, and even longer since she had made him laugh in such a way.

"I’m not stupid, you know," he told her then with a roll of his eyes as he folded his arms across his chest and leant back against the balustrade. "I could see the pair of you flirting from the other side of the palace.”

“We weren’t…” she was going to argue, but then she sighed, and her sigh turned into a laugh that matched his own. 

Maker, did it feel good to laugh with him again. 

"Actually, I already told him," she said with a sigh that was punctuated by another laugh. “A long time ago.”

“Are you serious?” He asked her, his smile fading as he studied her intently. “When did this happen and why did I not know about this?”

“Because it wasn’t your business!” She told him, parroting his own words in a way that didn’t go unnoticed by him, with a flash of his eyes down towards the floor beneath his feet. “It was the morning I left Skyhold. I left him a letter that, well, told him everything.”

“Oh well how _incredibly_ romantic of you,” he said with a teasing smile as he nudged at her arm playfully. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Shut up,” she said with another roll of her eyes while her cheeks burned viciously.

“Oh! You should ask him to dance,” he cried out with delight, before moving closer to give her a nudge of encouragement. “Go on, it will be fun.”

“I...I kind of already did," she said with an awkward chuckle as her gaze dropped to the floor. "He said no.”

She sighed heavily. He had said no, and that truth was painful to remember.

Why _had_ he said no? Was it him? Was it true what he had said about not being able to dance?

Was it her? Was it because she was tall and big and the very antithesis of a good dancer?

“He’s such an idiot,” he said with a shake of his head and an exasperated sigh. “Well, worth a try.”

He shrugged at her then, as if it didn’t matter, as it was nothing to worry about.

It was. It really, really was.

“Anyway,” he said then with another clear of his throat. “I think you need to learn to be a little bit selfish, so stop worrying about me and go and spend time together before you leave.”

She bit her lip and wrung her hands as her mind once again began to fill with worry. 

Worry over him, and what it was that was troubling him. Worry over Cullen, and why he had rejected her.

Endless worries and concerns always flooding her mind, causing her blood to surge throughout her veins and her heart to race in the bowels of her chest.

She sighed. Perhaps he was right to tell her to stop worrying, about others at least.

Perhaps she should be a little bit selfish and go and find Cullen again. 

Even if they didn’t dance, it would be nice to see him again.

She looked back at those doors that led into the ballroom. Maker, it was tempting, to leave him behind and go and find the man who had captured her heart. 

“I’d say you could come to Skyhold with us,” he said then with a wistful tone that told her he was talking more to himself than to her. “But we need to get going to the Western Approach, and Ros will kill me if I make her wait any longer.”

She sighed. It would be so long until she saw either of them again.

But it felt just a little bit more unfair with Cullen. Perhaps it was because of everything that had happened between her and her brother, perhaps they needed the break from one another. 

Perhaps it was because she had spent all 27 years of her life with brother, and only a handful of weeks with Cullen before they had parted.

And this time, it had only been one night.

Lionel was right, she had to find him. But before she did, there was something that had gone unsaid.

An apology simply wasn't enough, he had to know that he could trust her, that she was still the sister he had always known, had always loved.

She stopped in her tracks, with a palm pressed against the door but not yet finding the strength to open it.

She looked back at him. He was smiling, but his face was stony and cold.

There was something behind that smile, she knew.

She thought about everything that had happened, how it had hurt when they had struck one another with words as sharp and cold as ice, how painful it had been when they had all thought they’d lost him at the Conclave, and then again after Haven. 

She wanted him to know why that had hurt her so much, she wanted him to know how much she cared. 

She couldn’t help him, not this time, that was the path he had taken himself upon, one which she did not have the strength to join even if he would let her.

But she could love him, and could tell him as such.

“Alright, but before I do..." she began with a smile as she reached across that chasm between them took his hand in her own, hands which were gloved where hers were bare, warm where hers were cold. 

They were so different, they always had been. But that was OK.

That didn’t matter when you were family, when you loved one another, when you cared.

“You know I love you, right?”

He turned to her with his eyes wide, his lips parted. But he wouldn’t let go of her hand, tightening his grip even as he turned away from her, even as he hid himself from her gaze, even as he gave a telltale sniff and shook his head stubbornly.

It was the sniff from his nose that exposed him; it would have gone unnoticed amongst the din of the ballroom, but out here, the deathly quiet of the night betrayed him.

“Are you crying?” She asked then with a smirk.

“_No_!” He cried out in protest, as Amelie couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “Go away and find your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my…” she went to argue, but thought better of it. 

She didn’t have the strength to argue with him again, and besides, what exactly _was_ Cullen to her? 

She hadn’t quite figured out that yet. He was just..._Cullen_. That alone seemed self-explanatory enough to her.

“Alright fine.” She rolled her eyes at him as she relinquished herself from his grasp and crossed the balcony to find the doors to the ballroom. 

She looked back once, but he did not look at her, stubborn as always.

But so was she, and she would always try.

“Look after yourself,” she said to him, even as he continued to ignore her gaze.

“Likewise,” he said then with a smile that betrayed the affection in his heart.

That was their parting gesture, their curtain call, their bow to the crowd at the end of their dance.

The night was over, and the two went their separate ways.

But it was OK, and it would be OK.

She would do what he had told her to do, and look after herself; and she hoped that he would do the same. It wasn’t her business anymore, it never had been, really; he had been right to say that it was unfair for it to have ever been.

She entered the ballroom again and left the cold of the night behind her.

Look forward, not back. Onwards, not behind.

_“I’ll come and find you at the end of the night, when all of this is over,” _Cullen had said to her once, and now she would find him.

The night was truly over now. As she entered the ballroom, there was hardly anyone left to chatter and gossip amongst themselves, to whisper in dark corners and peer out from behind jewel encrusted masks. Only stragglers remained now, or those who were seeking romantic dalliances in the dark corners of the palace where no one would bear witness to their passions.

And she would be one of them. 

_Dalliance_. That made it sound so..._exciting_.

A bell tolled to signal the striking of the clock. 

Midnight. 

It was not long past the tolling of the bell when she found Cullen again, on that same balcony where they had come together in a kiss beneath the gaze of the two moons.

He smiled when he saw her, and she smiled too. In his presence, her worries vanished. 

“Hi,” she said with a breathy laugh as a blush began to creep onto her cheeks. “Thank you for waiting.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said with a chuckle. “How did–”

Cullen froze in front of her eyes, his words falling into an endless abyss while the colour began to drain from the once blushing skin of his cheeks.

He was looking behind her, in a way that he had done once before, when her brother had interrupted them while the letter was passing between their hands.

Oh Maker, not again, surely...

Amelie turned around slowly, with a grimace on her face as she prepared for whatever was in store for her.

But there was no need to. Because she wasn’t met with scorn, or anger, or a smug grin to disguise his inner contempt.

She caught her brother’s gaze with her own, and where there had once been a storm, there was only peace, joy, pride, in his eyes as he smiled down at them. 

He said nothing to them, only waved briefly with a childish grin before he hurried away with a newfound spring to his step.

He always loved to embarrass her, it was a favourite pastime of his.

The two of them burned, their cheeks flaring with shame as they turned towards one another but refused to meet each other’s eye.

But Maker, she couldn’t help it. A laugh escaped from her lips, tumbling out of her under the guise of a breath.

Only a select few people could make her laugh in such a way, and yet, she had laughed so much tonight, in spite of it all.

“So I think that answers my question,” Cullen said then as he mirrored her laugh. “I’m glad you sorted that out, anyway.”

“Yeah,” she said with a smile while her eyes fell to the floor beneath her feet.

They hadn’t sorted much out, really. There were still things that had gone unsaid, things that she had simply let go.

It was for the best, she would keep telling herself. It was what he wanted.

Cullen must have sensed her discomfort. “You can go back if you want–”

“No!” She insisted as she brought herself level with his gaze once again. “I wanted to come back and see you. I wanted to spend time with you before I go.”

“Go?” Cullen asked then with a new wave of fear in his eyes. “You’re...leaving.”

“Well...eventually, yes,” she said quietly with regret in her voice. 

It was a truth that she wished she didn’t have to utter, that she wished could have gone unsaid.

But Maker, it had been a long night, and as happy as she was in Cullen’s presence, she was so, so tired.

“But…” Cullen was taken aback, his eyes wide, his lips parted, opening and closing as he tried to conjure the words that would keep her by his side. But he sighed with defeat, knowing that all she had spoken was an unfortunate truth.

A goodbye was always going to come for them, eventually. He must have known that.

“Wait,” he said then, as he brought a hand to her shoulder and watched his fingers trace the pattern of her laced sleeve. “I want to, um, make up for something, I guess. In case I don’t get the chance to again.”

He stepped away from her, as he locked on to her gaze with his eyes of molten gold.

Then, once he had her attention, he lowered his gaze, then his head, bowing to her as the court had bowed to her brother. An arm reached out towards her, with his palm open to the skies above, as he spoke to her with whispers that were as sweet as a minstrels song.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for my...insolence...before,” he said with a clear of his throat as a new tide of red began to pool on his cheeks. "But I hope it’s not too late to ask if I may have this dance, my lady?”

Amelie eyes grew wide, her heart racing as it thundered at the centre of her chest.

A dance…? He was...asking?

She looked behind her. The ballroom was dark now, the music had stopped, the courtiers had dissipated.

There was no dance left to be had. The night was over. 

_And he had said no._

“But...you said...” She asked as her eyes watched the fingers on that outstretched hand. “I thought you said you didn’t dance?”

It would be so easy for her to take his hand, for her to say yes.

_But he had said no_.

She couldn’t take it without the promise that he wouldn’t back away, change his mind, mock her in some way, as so many had before.

This wouldn’t be the first time she had been asked as a joke.

He sighed, cursing himself beneath his breath as he did so. Then, with a shake of his head, he pleaded to her with eyes that shone beneath a pale moonlight, and with a promise that he uttered with that same confidence, that same surety, that same sincerity, that he had kissed her with.

“I know I did, and I’m rubbish, but...” he said with his heart balancing on that outstretched hand, and as she looked into his eyes, she knew that he had spoken true. "For you, I'll try."

It was that promise that she had looked, spoken on a whisper carried in that chill breeze.

Humble. Sincere. True.

She believed him. She believed that he would try. For her, he would try.

And so would she. She would try.

She took that hand with fingers that shook in the cold night air, and he enveloped her in a blanket of warmth as he brought his fingers around her own, enclosing her hand tightly in his grasp, before wrapping his arm around her torso, bringing her close to the centre of his body.

Every inch of her burned, but it wasn’t something to be frightened of, or ashamed. It was good, it was pure, it was safe. 

He brought his hand to her waist with no comment. He cursed when he stood on her foot, but only laughed when she did the same. 

No complaints, as so many before him had done. 

It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t flawless, but they tried, and as they did so, they laughed, and whenever he got the chance, he planted another kiss upon her lips, and another.

“You’re the perfect height for me to kiss you, you know,” he remarked between kisses as his lips hovered a hair's breadth away from her own.

And Maker, he was perfect for her.

The dance was awkward and fumbling, and they stood on one another’s feet far too many times. But in her mind, they danced just as brilliantly as her brother, just as boldly as her sister, beneath a pair of moons who applauded their every step, and an audience of stars who watched them with envy.

It was their goodbye. This time, it was spoken not in a hurried scrawl on weather worn parchment, nor performed in the Marcher fashion with a kiss on the cheek, nor rushed or awkward or hurried.

It was etched into every step of a dance that was theirs, only theirs, and she would cherish it until the day when she saw him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just dropping in to say that my friend did [this amazing art](https://inquisitors-mabari.tumblr.com/post/633117279662587904/on-far-horizons-chapter-28-the-last-dance) of Cullen and Amelie about to dance together after the ball if you want to check it out 🥰


	29. The Break of Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the morning after the night before, and Amelie wakes up to a beautiful dawn on a peaceful morning. But it isn’t long until her peace is shattered by an unexpected visitor.

In her dreams, Amelie danced.

At the very heart of the grandest, and most important palace in the Empire of Orlais, she stood in the arms of another, who guided her through each of the steps of this season's newest waltz with ease. He was strong and proud with every move he made, and as they danced, she smelt the earth on him, and saw a forest in the throes of autumn in his golden brown eyes.

And as they danced, he whispered in her ear, something that was as sweet and gentle as the music that played from a lone minstrel.

“_You’re the perfect height for me to kiss you_,”

At the sounds of his words, she smiled to herself, and only herself. There was no one else in the ballroom with them, no one to watch them, to study them, to whisper about them from behind masks adorned with silver and gold.

It was a moment for them, and only for them.

She just wished that it never had to end.

But as with everything, it did. With the coming of the dawn, the dream began to fade, slowly at first, with details beginning to become blurred and a strange mist appearing at the edges of her vision. Then, it was gone, and all she saw instead was a room that bathed in the harsh light of the early morning sun.

Her eyes opened slowly, but as soon as she realised what had happened, she squeezed them shut and groaned audibly.

No. She didn’t want to wake, not now.

It was too early. Maker, far too early, and her dream had been so beautiful...

She threw her head beneath the white silk sheets that she had buried herself into the night before. If she shut her eyes tightly, if she willed herself to sleep once again, she could go back to that dream of a perfect dance in the arms of a man who made her feel so at peace.

But she couldn't. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t. 

The dawn had come, however much she may fight it, it had come.

These things always had to come to an end.

She sighed with defeat, as she opened her eyes to the world once again.

It was a beautiful morning, really, cool and crisp in a way that only late spring mornings could offer.

It was just what she needed after the night before, calm, quiet, peace.

But she couldn’t stop the memories from surging through her mind, the remnants of that whirlwind of emotions that still caused her heart to sting with the memory of them. The pain she had felt, the nager, the fear at the closing of the world she knew. And then the joy, the happiness, the peace she had known in the arms of that man from her dream.

In the end, there had only been him, just as it had been in her dream.

The smell of the earth, an autumn forest in the eyes of her dance partner. 

Cullen.

She remembered those moments well, and she never wanted to forget, the ballroom, the dancing, the kiss beneath the stars, they had been real. 

That had been her, all of it; she could scarcely believe it.

But it had been.

She had never felt so happy before, had never woken up after such a beautiful night to a world that was so filled with joy.

As she lay with the covers tucked up to her chin, she looked up at the canopy above her bed and smiled to herself.

Cullen. He was real. The dance. It had happened.

All of it had happened. To _her_.

It had been a difficult night, long and arduous as she faced a tornado of anger and pain and loss. But then it had ended on a high, with a kiss beneath the stars that had sealed their fate; a long awaited reply to a letter she had left on a mantlepiece in a drafty, musty tower. She still had that letter, given to her by hands that trembled and shook.

He had been so nervous. Maker, he was so sweet...

She reached out towards her bedside table where her hands found the letter, folded up as it had been when she had hidden it in the folds of her dress. She should have given it back to its owner when she had said goodbye, she knew. But, well, she had forgotten it was there, with everything that had happened.

Perhaps if she saw him again, she could return it. But for now, it was hers, a little piece of their budding romance laying in the palm of her hand.

She could always read it again…

No, that would be silly. She was the one who wrote it, she knew exactly what was in it.

But...

She sat herself up, leaning against soft pillows filled to the brim with feather down, as she unfurled the tightly folded pages of now worn parchment.

Her words were still there, as plain as the day she had written them, and with those words came memories of those moments when a curt stranger had become a trusted companion, a source of comfort n times that were hard, a man she cared for in ways she had not understood.

But she did now. Maker, she did now.

She couldn’t stop that smile from forming on those lips as she read those words, she couldn’t stop the tide of joy from swelling in her heart as she thought back to his reply. She couldn’t stop herself from bringing it to the centre of her chest where her heart lay, from giggling to herself like a little girl, from wondering when she would see him again.

“My lady,” 

Amelie froze.

“Yes?” She squealed as she folded up the letter in a hurry and threw it beneath the covers.

“Lord Trevelyan is here,” she was told in a cheerful tone, but those words plunged straight through her heart like a knife slicing through butter on a summer's day.

“What?” She cried out in disbelief.

Her father? What was he doing in Orlais?

Oh no. Oh Maker. He’d come to check up on them, hadn’t he?

On Claudette, no doubt. Not her.

“Shall I tell him you’ll need a moment?”

She panicked, her heart pounding in the centre of her chest as blood surged around her body so viciously that she began to feel light headed.

“It’s fine,” she said as she forced herself to smile. “I err...I won’t be long.”

She tore the duvet off of her, exposing herself to the chill of the morning air. The morning’s in Orlais were certainly more crisp than they were in Ostwick even at the denouement of spring, and she was beginning to regret wearing only a thin nightdress.

Maker what was she going to do?

Her eyes scanned her room, with the remnants of sleep blurring her vision somewhat.

She found a silk robe nearby, one which was a beautiful shade of deep purple and which felt soft and comforting against her goosepimpled skin.

That would have to do. He’d just have to deal with it.

That’s what you get for forcing her out of bed when the sun had barely begun to make its presence known.

She moved reluctantly towards the door, with her feet diving into a pair of wool slippers that she had left there when they had arrived . But a crunch beneath her right foot made her stop in her tracks.

She looked down, only to see that parchment that had not long before been in her hands poking out from beneath her slipper; it must have fallen to the floor when she had gotten out of bed.

She threw it into the pocket of her overcoat. She could find somewhere else to put that later.

There was no way she was letting a servant find it.

It was only a small villa, with four long corridors that surrounded a courtyard that basked in the morning sun. It was beautiful, and that courtyard was one of her favourite places to sit and read her books, but she couldn’t appreciate its beauty when dread swelled in her heart. 

What was he doing here? Why had he come all this way?

Because he didn’t trust her, of course. He never had done.

Not since her husband had died, at least.

“What do you mean, you haven’t named him?” She heard a voice call out as she approached the hallway at the front of her villa.

She knew that voice, knew it so well that she had picked it out of a garden filled with nobles whispering from behind masks.

It wasn’t her father. It was Lionel, the _other_ Lord Trevelyan.

It had been a long time since he had been anything other than ‘Inquisitor’ that she had almost forgotten what his title had been.

Maker, she was stupid. Or perhaps she was just struggling from having woken so much earlier than usual.

She relaxed, letting out the breath that she had been involuntarily holding in as a smile crept across her lips.

Her brother. She didn’t think she’d see him again after last night.

The apology on the balcony, she thought that had been it, that she wouldn’t see him again until the day she found the courage to journey to Skyhold.

But he was here.

She reached towards the door that had been pushed ajar, ready to greet her brother with a smile that was enthusiastic and a heart that was bursting with joy.

“I just...never really got around to it, I guess. I just didn’t really think about it.”

She froze in place, her heart protesting against her entrance as it began to pound in her chest.

She knew that voice too. 

Cullen. That was Cullen’s voice.

No, he couldn’t be here. Not now.

She hurried over to the nearest mirror, one which was so ornate and so beautifully adorned that was scarcely any glass left to look into. But she could see her long river of hair sticking out at all sorts of angles, and she could see the sheer nightdress that, in the wrong lighting, could be far too revealing.

She had to go back. She had to change.

But then they’d be waiting. She didn’t like leaving people waiting. It was incredibly rude.

“You didn’t think about it?” She heard her brother say. “Cullen, it’s a horse, it’s a living being. You can’t just not name it, it’s rude.”

"I just...well..Dennet just shoved the reins into my hands and left me to it," Cullen admitted with a sheepish air to his tone. "I never thought about naming it...I mean, _him_. It's just...our means of getting here, really."

“That’s just mean, Cullen,” Lionel tutted. "Maker's sake, the poor guy got lumbered with you, and then you can't even be arsed to name him. What are you going to do if you ever have children, not name them either? _Honestly_."

She would have sighed with disbelief at the path of their conversation, if she wasn’t in such a panic.

Perhaps she would have picked up on the ‘children’ part too. Maker, she wondered how he would be around children? Around Adelaide? Would he even _like_ Adelaide?

If he would ever want to have any of his own…

She shook her head to silence herself as she returned to the task at hand. Her hair, the sleep in her eyes, her _dress_.

There was nothing she could do about the nightdress. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and flattened the hairs that stuck out at all angles while fingers worked their way through the knots in her hair. But she couldn’t go and change, not now. It was very rude to make people wait; she’d just have to tighten her robe and hope that a breeze didn’t blow in from one of the open windows.

That would have to. Maker, why had her brother brought _him_ here? 

They had said goodbye on a high, when she had looked beautiful in her expensive dress and her elegant hairstyle. Now, she looked like someone had pulled her through a hedge on a damp spring morning.

_Oh Andraste guide her through this trial._

With a deep breath, she threw her tamed hair behind her shoulders and passed through the door into the hall.

They looked surprised to see her, but none more so than Cullen. His eyes were wie and his lips parted, as all the colour seemed to drain from his face before flooding it with a deep pool of burning scarlett.

Perhaps it was her appearance. Oh Maker, what had she done? Perhaps she should have pretended she wasn’t here.

But then she wouldn’t have seen Lionel again. Or Cullen...

“Oh hi Amy,” Lionel said with a satisfied grin, before turning back to Cullen for a passing moment. “We’re not done with this conversation, by the way.”

“What are you doing here?” She asked her brother with a somewhat accusatory tone, but her eyes were on Cullen, who looked too afraid to meet her gaze, no doubt thrown off by her dishevelled appearance.

But what had they expected? The sun had hardly risen; it was far too early for visitors.

“I just wanted to come and see you before we left,” Lionel said with a shrug. “And, of course, I thought you two might want to, you know, _see_ each other.”

He winked at her persistently while his lips formed a smirk that brought a tide of red to her cheeks.

Maker, he was _so_ embarrassing.

“Well, you could have warned me…” she mumbled at the floor beneath her feet. “Then I could have been, you know...properly dressed.”

“Oh come on,” Lionel scoffed as he nudged her with his arm. “As if he hasn’t already seen it before.”

She exploded at his accusation, the fire in her cheeks bursting out in a cry of disbelief.“He hasn’t!”

“I haven’t!” He cried out in perfect synchronisation with herself.

She spared a glance at him, and saw him watching her out of the corner of his eyes. But as soon as they caught one another’s gaze, they pulled away in shame at the sin that they had never committed.

But Lionel wasn’t convinced, clearly. His eyes were narrowed as he studied her, his lips pursed as he watched her every move.

“What? I’m telling the truth,” she told him with her voice becoming shrill as her cheeks burned brighter. “Just because that’s something _you_ would do. Or _did_ do…”

“Hey, that’s quite the presumption to make,” he argued as he folded his arms across his chest.

“Likewise!” She mirrored him, as they entered a stand off with both of them standing their ground with their arms folded and their lips pursed. 

But to her surprise, her brother wasn’t in the mood for being stubborn this morning. 

“Fair point,” he said with a shrug, before leaning in closer to Amelie and lowering his tone. “But let me just be clear with you. That’s a line that even _I_ won’t cross.”

She looked at him with suspicion in her eyes. “Really?”

“Yes, _really_,” he said to her with a curt tone. “I have _never_ taken it that far. Not since I got married. It just...seems wrong. But then again, the whole _thing _is wrong.”

Amelie didn’t want to say anything, but that was exactly what she was thinking. 

But she had put her foot in it far too many times the night before, she wasn’t about to do it again now, not when they had only just begun to make amends.

_Mind your business, Amelie._

“Anyway, that’s _another _reason why I wanted to see you before we left,” he said then with his voice still low, while behind him, Cullen pretended he wasn’t listening by looking with interest at an old dusty portrait on her wall. “I’m going to come home after we’ve finished with our business in the Western Approach.”

“_Really_?” 

He was coming home? After everything that had happened, after all of those months away, he was coming home.

Thank the Maker, he was coming home.

“Yeah, just to visit and...sort everything out,” he said as his gaze fell from her own.

Her joy turned to horror, her excitement to dread.

He wasn’t just coming home to visit. He was coming home to face his reckoning, face up to what he had done.

Good. That was a good thing. It had gone on for far too long, the lies and deceit.

But she was frightened for him, worried about what that would mean, and she could see in his eyes that he was just as concerned as she was.

_Andraste preserve him, _it wasn’t going to be easy.

“Yeah, so, anyway,” he said with a shake of his head and a smile that was poorly manufactured. “Where’s Cee-cee? I want to see her before I go.”

“She’s in bed still, seeing as the dawn has barely broken,” she said with an air of sarcasm.

“Well forgive me for wanting to see my sisters before I left,” he said in a teasing manner, but it made her feel guilty nonetheless. He only wanted to do his best, that was all. “And also for bringing Cullen with me so you can see him again before we leave.”

She spared a glance towards Cullen, who was still doing a bad job of pretending that he wasn’t listening while a tide of red flooded towards his cheeks at the sound of his name.

She could thank him for that, of course, and it really was good to see them both again.

They had said goodbye after their dance, and it had been long, and punctuated by kisses that neither of them wanted to break off.

But it hadn’t been goodbye, Lionel had made sure of that.

She could thank him for that, it was good of him to do that for, for _them_, even after everything.

“I’ll take your silence, and your reddening cheeks, as a sign of gratitude,” he said with pride in his tone and in his stature. “Anyway, I’d better go and find Claudette and, well, leave you both to it.”

He winked again, this time pairing it with a wiggle of his eyebrows, before turning on the spot as he marched towards the door she had come through as if the villa was his own. But he stopped in the doorway, pausing for a moment before retreating back into the room and finding Amelie once again.

Cullen went back to studying the portrait, turning his back upon them both.

“By the way, don’t tell Claudette about me and..._you-know-who_,” he said hurriedly into her ear. “And if you want my advice, I wouldn’t tell her about you and Cullen, either.”

Behind him, she saw Cullen freeze once again.

“Why?” She asked him with her tone as low as his own. 

“You know what she’s like,” he scoffed at her with a roll of his eyes. “She can’t keep anything quiet, she’ll go back home and tell our parents everything.”

“Hmm, you have got a point there,” she said with a shake of her head. “But…”

She hated keeping things from her. It didn’t seem right.

But he was right, she _would_ tell their parents, and she wouldn’t even see that as a problem, and it very much was. 

She had been so panicked when she thought her father was here, so nervous that he would find out what had happened. She knew how he would react, how they both would react. They couldn’t know what had happened here.

As for Claudette? She could understand why he wouldn’t want to tell her. 

But it was too late for her.

“She saw us together,” she told him with a sigh. “On the balcony before I came and found you.”

“Oh…” he said beneath his breath with a purse of his lips.

“But we were just talking,” she added quickly. “So...maybe she doesn’t know that we’re a...a _thing_?”

“A thing?” he asked then as his eyes lit up and a snicker of laughter erupted from his lips. “And are you a _thing_?”

Amelie flushed with shame. She had said it without even thinking, without even fully knowing what she had meant.

A thing? What even was a _thing_?

A thing. What _was_ a thing? Was it what they had?

What _did_ they have? What _were_ they?

Cullen had been a stranger to her, when they had been forced to endure one another’s company on a cold afternoon in Haven. Then they had been stuck together on a cold mountain, and she sought him when there was no one else that she could go to. 

Then they found companionship, comfort, joy in the presence of the other, and eventually, they kissed, on the balcony of the Winter Palace beneath an audience of twinkling stars, before they danced together in the light of the moons.

They were certainly something, something more than they had been before.

But exactly _what_ they were? She had no idea.

“I...I don’t know,” she admitted as a flush of red pooled at her cheeks.

She had no idea why she had said what she had said, but then there were a lot of things she still didn’t fully understand.

“You know, it’s painful hearing you talk sometimes,” he said to her with a roll of his eyes and a playful shake of his head. “Now why don’t the two of you go and figure that out while I go and find Claudette.”

He left her then, marching off in the direction that she had come from without even stopping to ask her which room Claudette was sleeping in.

But then again, there weren’t many. He would find her soon enough.

And as he did so, he gave her something that was infinitely precious to her, to the both of them: time.

Time with Cullen, alone.

Time alone between them had been somewhat of a rarity. There had been that brief moment in his tent in the mountain camp, but there was a camp of soldiers surrounding them, and it wasn’t long before they had been interrupted. Then there had been the balcony, but the din of the ballroom was ever present to remind them that their time was short. 

But here, they were alone, truly alone.

Cullen had stopped looking at the portrait, his eyes finding her own as he watched her with an expectant air, waiting to see who would make the first move.

It would be her today, it had to be. He looked lost here, dressed in his armour that was clunky and stiff amidst her small villa filled with priceless decor made from fine porcelain or delicate, hand sewn fabrics.

Besides, he was her guest here. It was only right for her to make the first move.

“Did you want to take some air?” She offered to him. “I can show you the courtyard, if you like?”

“Yes, that...would be nice,” he said to her, and as she did so, he found her with those honey coloured eyes that were as warm and inviting as sunlight that called to them through the towering windows of her villa.

But he didn’t approach her. He was such a nervous man.

He had been so much braver the night before. But then the Inquisition had been in control that night; this was her domain.

She came closer to him, her hand reaching out to find his arm and lead him out into the brisk morning air.

Dressed as he was in his armour, her fingers found only metal where once there had been soft silk, and it was cold to the touch. She clutched at his upper arm, and felt his body relax beneath her touch, and while his armour may be cold, his body was warm, so warm that, when they came out into the courtyard at the centre of her villa, and a cool morning breeze swept across her walled garden, she found herself drifting even closer to him, seeking the warmth that only he could give her.

It surprised her still how easily they seemed to come together, how they found one another, how they appeared to always move in tandem, even when he marched in clunky, chattering armour and she drifted in her sheer nightdress and shuffled in her delicate slippers.

Maker, she couldn’t believe he had had to see her in such a manner, so unkempt and so untidy.

“Forgive me, Cullen,” she mumbled as her cheeks burned viciously. “If I’d have known you were coming, I would have dressed more...appropriately.”

“It’s OK! There’s nothing to forgive,” he said hastily, as he brought her to a stop near the centre of the courtyard, where water trickled out from the arms of a maiden carved in marble into a pool that glistened in the morning sun. “I didn’t know I was coming here either. Your brother just turned up at my door this morning and asked if I wanted to come and see you and, well, of course I did.”

“I am grateful to him for doing so but...” Amelie bit her lip as she sunk down onto the edge of the pool, where the marble was cold and biting against her skin. “I think I’d rather your memories of me be from last night, rather than...this.”

She gestured to her unkempt hair, then waved a hand over the robe that hid her sheer nightdress from view. She was only grateful that she had found that robe in the first place, she couldn’t imagine what he would think if he had seen her so...exposed.

“Amelie, you look beautiful,” he said with a sigh as he sat himself down beside her, turning to her with eyes that were as warm as the sun that rose in the skies above their heads. “You always look beautiful.”

He brought a hand to the side of her face, where his fingers worked to tuck a strand of hair as red as her burning cheeks behind a frozen ear. But as he did so, there was a pull on her scalp, as his fingers found themselves colliding with a knot that had woven itself into her hair.

Amelie burned once again. “Sorry, perhaps I should have brushed my hair, at least.”

“It’s alright,” he said with a chuckle. “You should see my hair when I first wake up.”

She turned to him with her eyes narrowed as she scrutinised his neatly styled locks of blonde hair.

No, she couldn’t believe it. He must be lying to her, trying to make her feel better.

“Anyway, you know that’s just how it is with your brother,” he said then as he appeared to be oblivious to the doubt in her mind. “We’ve gotten used to it now, but he does tend to come up with things on the spot. Then when he does, he can’t be persuaded otherwise.”

“Yeah…” Maker, he had no idea how much that had frustrated her over the years.

Amelie, who needed days to prepare for any event, or any decision, had always been bothered by his propensity to just...turn up.

But not this morning, strangely enough. She couldn’t bring herself to be annoyed at him this time. She had been glad to see him; it meant that everything was OK now, that there were hard feelings between them both even after everything that had happened.

And it meant that she had seen Cullen again.

“I mean, I didn’t know he was going to be visiting home until about...10 minutes ago?” Cullen continued with a chuckle that was tinted by exasperation. “But I’m glad he is for obvious reasons but also, well, it means that...maybe we could see each other again?”

She looked at him, and as she did so, she saw a hope well in his eyes in time to the calling of an awakening bird.

She hadn’t thought about that. She had been so caught up in what her brother was doing, that she had forgotten what this could mean for her.

Cullen, she could see him again. 

Providing they survived.

Of course they would. Of course.

She couldn’t think otherwise.

“I could come back with him, maybe,” she said then with a smile that faltered only briefly. “I mean, I have to think of Adelaide but...maybe.”

"Of course," he said with a smile, as his eyes turned to the glistening pool behind them. "But I hope you can."

So did she. Maker, so did she.

But further doubt began to creep into her heart, her veins surging with a fresh bout of nerves as a thought crossed her mind that wracked her with fear, one which had crossed through her mind only the night before, but had become long forgotten, buried behind memories of kisses and dances and apologies.

She might have to leave Adelaide again. 

Or she could bring her to Skyhold too, then he could meet her, then– 

Oh Maker, what if he didn't like her. What if _she_ didn't like _him_.

That would be worse. Maker, that would be so much worse.

Why hadn't she thought of this before? Why hadn't she considered how Adelaide would feel?

Her father had been dead for not even three years, and her mother had found another man to take his place, a man who meant so much more to her than her father had ever done.

And how did Cullen feel about her? Had he had any doubts? Had it ever put him off her?

She had once been told that her virtue was her greatest asset, and weapon, that men would fall to their knees for a chance at claiming it, and shun her if there was any doubt of its existence.

Doubt. Had Cullen ever doubted?

She was a woman once married, once claimed, who had lived a life that he had not shared.

How did that make him feel?

She tried to look into his eyes, but he was staring at his reflection in the pool behind them, watching it move and change as the waters rippled and swirled in front of him.

Doubt continued to eat away at her heart, souring that happiness that she had felt when she had first heard his voice that morning.

“Amelie?” He asked her suddenly with concern in his tone, and she found herself bringing her eyes to meet his own while her teeth bit at the cold skin of her lips.

"Does it bother you?" She blurted out so suddenly that Cullen looked shocked when he met her gaze. "Me being married before and...and…"

"Adelaide?" He offered with his voice so low that it danced in tune with the trickle of the water. "Amelie, of course it doesn't bother me. Why would it bother me?"

Amelie turned away with a flush of red pooling on her cheeks.

She should have known it wouldn't. She shouldn't have doubted him.

"I...I just..." she mumbled through that storm of red, not daring to look into his eyes for fear that would be plagued by anger. "Some people would mind."

But then he laughed, a laugh that was as gentle as the water pouring out of the maidens hands.

"Well, not me," he said with a chuckle as he put an arm around her and brought her close to the cold armour that covered his chest. "Honestly Amelie, you do like to worry."

“I do not!” She cried out in protest as she pulled away from his hold and pouted up at him. But she soon backed away, as her pout dissolved into a purse of her lips as her eyes fell to her lap. “Well...maybe I do a little bit.”

Cullen only laughed, as he found her hands which rested in her lap, and enclosed them in his own.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he whispered to her with his words as soft as the silk of her robe. “Or any of this. I promise.”

She turned to him, her eyes wide as she became enraptured in those pools of crystalline honey, just as she had done on the mountain side, in the ballroom, and on the balcony beneath the stars.

She would always be enraptured by the warmth in his gaze, by the crooked smile on his lips, by the kindness in his heart.

She hoped then that she would always be enraptured by him, by Cullen, by this man who she cared so much for, that she would always have him, to ground her, to guide her, to care for her.

“Oh Maker, I think I have to go,”

The world grew cold and dark around her.

Her smile faded, as a frost appeared upon her cheeks where once they had burned. 

She looked up into his eyes, pleading to the depths of his soul, his heart, his love.

_Love_. Was that what they had? 

She really didn’t know.

“You do?” 

“The Inq– your brother’s waiting,” he said quietly, as he looked over her shoulder with a frown on his lips.

She dared not turn, dared not look at him, dared not acknowledge his presence. Perhaps then he would leave them to it, perhaps she could have longer with Cullen.

But that had been a foolish dream.

“Sorry! I don’t mean to interrupt!” Lionel called out to them from the edge of the courtyard. “But we do have to get going.”

Cullen said nothing, his gaze flitting from one sibling to the other, perhaps trying to figure out where his loyalties lay.

She answered for him.

“It’s fine,” Amelie told him with her voice low, as she hid her gaze from the pair of them while her cheeks flushed with red. “I got to see you again, at least.”

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh of defeat. “And maybe I can see you again soon?”

“Yeah, I hope so,” she said to him as she mirrored his smile. “And I will write to you, I promise.”

At the sound of her promise, a light returned to his eyes, a glimmer of hope to his weary smile, and even as he said his goodbye’s and rose to his feet, it remained, absolute, and powerful.

“That...that would be nice,” he said to her sheepishly. “Your letter meant so much to me, it really did.”

The letter...

Maker, the _letter_!

“Cullen!” She cried out suddenly as a hand dived into the pocket of her robe. “Your letter!”

She tore the letter out of her pocket and thrust it towards him, but as she did so, she hesitated, only for a second. It was his, it had been intended for him. And yet, it held so many good memories for her.

Skyhold. The palace. _Him_.

“You can keep it if you–” He began to say, but she shook her head insistently.

“No!” She cried, pushing the letter towards him with greater determination. “It’s yours, I want you to have it.”

In spite of her reluctance, she was insistent, determined.

She didn’t know why, but she wanted him to have it, that little piece of her to take away and keep, even when she wasn’t there.

He studied her for a while, his eyes darting between her own and the parchment in her hands.

But then he reached forward, his fingers coming to find the letter with a smile creeping across his face.

Then it was his turn to hesitate, his hand hovering above her own for just a second, a second where the world seemed to come to a stop, the water in the fountain freezing in place as the birdsong in the skies above fell into silence.

She watched as his other hand came to find her own, plucking her fingers away from the parchment as he took it into his possession. But with his other hand, he took hold of her, cradling her hand so carefully that even the gentlest of breezes could have torn them apart.

But it didn’t. He held her with care, he watched her with kindness, and he brought those fingers to his lips where he planted a kiss upon her cold skin.

“Goodbye,” he whispered to her on a breath that was warm against her icy fingers, a goodbye which she cherished even as he left her in the courtyard of her villa to join her brother and set off on another adventure.

Perhaps she should have been sad to see him go, but she wasn’t. It was strange, but even as she stood alone in that garden, she was content, and her heart thundered in her chest as the sensation of those lips pressing against her fingers burned into the depths of her memory.

She had kissed him when they had said goodbye at Skyhold. But that was awkward, and intended in an entirely different manner.

This was different. It had been so easy for him to bring those fingers to his lips, to whisper against her skin, to hold her fingers so gentle in his own. But it made her heart feel so full, her soul feel so alive.

Love. Was that what they had? She had no idea.

But they were something, at least, and whatever it was she liked it. She liked it a lot.

In the courtyard of her villa, beneath a sun that warmed her skin as it rose higher and higher into the sky, she brought that hand that he had kissed to the centre of her chest where she felt the flutter of her heart dancing beneath her touch.

Just as she had danced in her dream, at the palace, with him.

And one day, they would dance together again.

One day.


	30. Shifting Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie and Claudette return home after their trip to the Winter Palace, where Amelie hopes to find Adelaide and begin to make amends for how she has treated her. But first, she must face her parents after everything that happened to them at the palace, and find some way to explain why Amelie and Corrine's matchmaking scheme came to nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Amelie's shitty parents are back and her father get's particularly nasty in this, if that will upset you then do feel free to skip

Maker, they were home.

The carriage that she shared with her sister came to a halt at the bottom of the steps to the front door of her parents home, and as it did so, a knife twisted its way into her heart.

Maker, why had she come home? Why hadn’t she taken Cullen’s invitation and gone to Skyhold?

Because they were going to the Western Approach, to do important things.

And because of Adelaide, because she needed her home, because she wanted to be with her again.

There were so many things she needed to tell her; she couldn’t run away to Skyhold and leave her at the mercy of her parents. That would be far crueler than anything that Amelie had done to her.

But Maker, her heart was in Skyhold, or the Western Approach, or wherever they were. With Cullen, in those hands that held her so delicately, that protected her, that made her feel so safe, so comforted, so warm.

It wouldn’t be long until she could see Cullen again, she had told herself as much on every stage of the journey home. It would only take a few months to go to the Western Approach and back, then she would him again, and Ostwick would be far behind her.

_One day._

But not today. Today, they had come home.

Oh Maker,

She turned her gaze towards Claudette, who was sat on the bench opposite her with a lock of her hair wrapped around a finger as she stared out of the window of their carriage with a dreamy smile.

She was content, worryingly so.

"Claudette, do you remember what I told you?" 

Claudette stirred, coming out of her dreamlike state to turn to Amelie with a piercing scowl.

"Yes Amelie! You've told me a _hundred_ times since we left Orlais!" She said with a huff as she folded her arms and turned her gaze back to the window. ""Don't tell them about Rylen, Claudette! Don't mention the mysterious man on the balcony who's name I'm not going to tell you, Claudette!" 

Claudette sighed again, with her fingers still absentmindedly playing with that lock of hair. "I get the picture, Amelie."

The two fell into silence for a moment. Amelie was too nervous to say anything, frightened that any further interfering would alienate her sister in the way it had to Lionel.

But she had to understand she just _had_ to.

“Claudette–”

"I don't get it," she interrupted with a roll of her eyes. "Will they _really_ care about–"

"Yes! Yes they will!" Amelie insisted once again. "Trust me Claudette, they _will_ care and they will _not_ like it."

Claudette huffed again as she pouted her lips at her. 

A foot tapped against the floor of the carriage, as her face contorted into a frown with knotted brows that betrayed the thoughts in her mind. She didn't like it, Amelie knew. She hated being told not to talk, not to share her news, not to tell a story that would surely make heads turn.

She always liked to be the centre of attention, just like their brother.

"Fine, I won't tell them," she mumbled begrudgingly with a cutting sigh of defeat.

“Good!” She said as she forced a smile onto her lips. “Now come on, our parents are waiting."

She watched as a servant opened the doors of her carriage, and with a deep breath, she stepped her feet out onto the gravel.

She could see them, standing by the door to their home. Watching Waiting.

Oh Maker, this was the moment she had been dreading ever since they had first left her villa in Orlais. There was only one thing that drove her forward, one thing that made the trial that she was about to face seem worth it.

Adelaide. 

She watched as her mother, than her father, registered her presence, and her eyes scanned the steps to their home in search of the only person she had returned for.

Adelaide.

But she wasn’t here. Maker, where was she?

"Amelie! Claudette!" Their mother cried as she hurried towards the carriage as soon as she saw them clamber out of it. “You’ll have to tell me _everything_. How’s your brother? Is he OK? Is he looking after himself because you know how he is–?”

“I–” Amelie paused, her brows furrowing as she looked down into her mother’s emerald green eyes. “How did you even know we saw him?”

“Well he told me, of course,” she said bluntly.

Of course he did. He never wrote to anyone else, only her.

Unless she was to be proven wrong the next time she had tea with Jennifer. 

_If _she ever had tea with Jennifer again, that is.

“Claudette!” It was her father’s voice who called out to them this time, as his imposing figure marched across the driveway. “How are you? Did you have a good time?”

Or not to _them_, as such. To Claudette.

Her mother had asked about Lionel, her father about Claudette.

What about herself? Who was going to ask after her?

“Oh yes, I had so much fun!” Claudette told him with a beaming smile.

As always, he returned her smile, beaming down at the daughter who shared his chestnut coloured hair and his hazel eyes.

It always seemed strange to her when she saw a smile on his face; it just didn’t seem...right.

“Good, and did you meet anyone?” He asked, turning the conversation straight to business, as he always did.

There was no room for paternal affection when business was to be had, not with Ferdinand Trevelyan, anyway.

She turned to Claudette, and threw her a glare that bore into the back of her head.

_Don’t tell him Claudette, please_, she begged silently to that curtain of chestnut coloured hair. 

_Please_.

“No,” she said then with a shrug. “They were all...unsuitable.”

Amelie sighed with relief, her entire body relaxing in tandem with the release of her breath.

But then she felt it, the icy stare of her father turning to her, piercing her with an intensity that she had never felt from anyone else.

“I see,” he said coolly, with a tone that sent a shiver down Amelie’s spine. “Claudette, do you want to go and ask the kitchen to make us some afternoon tea?”

His words would have appeared soft and kind as he spoke to the younger daughter, who had never fallen victim to his vitriol. But Amelie knew otherwise. As did her mother, who’s emerald green eyes had turned steely and cold as they caught Amelie’s gaze, while every inch of her body appeared to freeze before her eyes.

It was the expression she made when a storm was brewing upon the horizon. Composed. Cold. Defensive.

Amelie knew it well.

Claudette never seemed to notice such things. She was always smiling, always so happy, and with a song in her voice, she said: “Of course! I’d love to!”

She left them with a wave of her hand and a flick of her hair, and as she did so, the world seemed to grow darker, colder, more hostile.

In that darkness, Bann Ferdinand of Ostwick’s hazel brown eyes turned towards her with a steely glare, and even though he stood not much taller than Amelie, and nowhere near as tall as her brother, his presence was fearsome, imposing, intimidating.

“Amelie,” he said with his voice controlled and steady. But she could see the anger behind his eyes, where a storm was brewing in those forests marred by a biting autumn. “Once again, you have nothing to show for your efforts.”

The weight of his gaze caused her own to fall to the floor beneath her feet, while a chill fell over the grounds of her parents home.

“You do realise I have had to lie through my teeth to the Alessi’s of Tantervale the _entire_ time that you were away?” He continued as his once cool tone began to ignite with ever increasing fury. “And what would have happened if they had found out? You _know_ how dangerous that would have been, and it would have been your fault.”

She knew, of course she did. It was the same question Lionel had asked her, but his tone had been one of concern, not anger.

She turned to her mother, pleading with her for some kind of support, for her to stand behind her as she faced her father’s fury.

But her gaze was steely, her expression cold, her jaw set as she refused to make contact with Amelie’s gaze.

She knew she was partly to blame. She knew she had encouraged this, had seized upon the opportunity when Amelie had presented it to her.

That was why she turned away. 

Maker, did that make her angry.

“All that risk, and for what? Nothing,” he snapped at her in a way that made her shudder with dread. “I send you to Ferelden to bring my son home, and you fail. Then I send you to Orlais with my daughter because you promise to find her a better match, and you fail.”

She bit at her lip, as she fought back the anger that was threatening to burst out of her.

It was no use, arguing with him. But what was she meant to have done? Drag Lionel home against his will? Force Claudette away from the man she had fallen for?

What good would it have done? 

Claudette was home now, she would never see that man again.

What did it matter?

“After everything I’ve done for you,” he finished his rant then with a sigh that could have easily been mistaken for one of pity, if it wasn’t so laden with venom. “Don’t fail me again, Amelie.”

With a point of his finger to her face to emphasise his point, he turned on the spot with a stamp of his foot and marched back across the driveway to their home.

Her mother was still next to her, silent as always even in the face of a thundering storm.

She could have said something, could have intervened.

But she didn’t. She stood there, and let Amelie face the brunt of his aggression, and did nothing. 

As she always did.

If this were before the Conclave, she would have simply smiled, as if nothing was wrong. Moved on, as if nothing had happened.

_Tea?_ She would have asked, pushing that anger and that discontent inside of her until she no longer felt its stinging bite.

Not this time.

She didn’t have the strength to keep standing in that face of such anger, to face the brunt of their scorn, to be belittled and blamed for everything that went wrong.

Right now, she just wanted to go home. She just wanted to take Adelaide, and go home.

“Mother, where’s Adelaide?” 

“What?” Her mother snapped out of her trance, her expression softening as she looked up at Amelie with her brows furrowed in confusion. 

She asked her again, more insistently this time.“Adelaide, where is she?”

Her mother simply shrugged. “I don’t know. In her room, I imagine.”

Amelie’s heart came to a stop, as her blood began to boil with a rage that even her father’s words hadn’t instilled in her.

“You don’t know?” She snapped at her with a piercing tone.

_How dare she?_

Let them shrug her off, belittle her, brush her aside. But not Adelaide.

_How dare she?_

Her skin was hot, as her hands began to shake with an anger she had rarely known.

She had been angry at the palace, angrier than she ever had been, as all of those years of frustration burst out of her in one sudden outburst. But that was nothing, little more than a precursor to what would come now, the early signs of a storm brewing upon the horizon.

_How dare she?_

She drew herself closer to her mother, towering over her with eyes that burned with anger as she watched her silently for some seconds, as servants ferreted around them to unload the carriage.

“Leave that. We’re not staying here tonight,” she ordered a nearby servant, with a bark that was so sharp that they jumped out of their skin and almost dropped the box they were holding. It was the one her ball dress was packed in; Maker, what she would give to be wearing that again as she danced in the arms of her handsome stranger. 

They looked at her, then at her mother, then back at her, as if waiting for an alternative instruction from the superior lady.

“What do you mean?” Her mother's objection was little more than a scoff of disbelief. “It’s late, and–”

Amelie turned away from her, addressing the servant who had lowered the box to the ground in front of them. “Can you go and get Adelaide, please? And have someone pack her things for her.” 

She was clear and authoritative, calm but sincere, and in the absence of any alternative instructions, the servant nodded and hurried towards the house.

“Amelie? Don’t be silly,” Her mother said with another scoff as she launched herself at Amelie’s arm with a grasp that was as biting as the talons of a hawk. “Your home is hours away, it will be midnight before you get home!”

Amelie shrugged her arm out of her hold. “Then so be it.”

“Don’t be ridicu–”

“I am _not_ being ridiculous,” she cried out with an outburst that shocked even her. “I am not staying here tonight just to be belittled and blamed for everything that goes wrong!”

“Amelie!”

“No!” She cried out in another burst of anger, but as she did so, she became all too aware of what she had just done, of how she had let her tempers take hold of her.

Why? Where had this come from? What was making her lose her temper like this?

Everything. Everything that had ever happened. Everything that she had buried inside of her for so long. 

All those years of biting her tongue and keeping her head down, not raising her voice, not telling anyone she was hurt or upset. 

Then came Haven, the palace, the knowledge that her life had become stale and stifling. The anger at her brother, the jealousy at his ability to break free. The anger at herself, how she had acted, what she had done to Adelaide.

She hated it, all of it. She hated that she had kept this inside of her so long, until it crept through her veins like a poison, eating away at her until there was nothing left but an empty shell where a girl as lively as Adelaide, as carefree as Lionel, as fully of joy as Claudette, had once been.

She hated it. So much so that it had tipped her over the edge into a world of anger and frustration in a way she had never been before.

Maker, this wasn’t like her. She was the good child, the one who always behaved, did what she was told. And where had that gotten her?

Nowhere. It had gotten her nowhere.

Except here.

_"What? You really thought that, because you did what you were told and kept your head down, our parents would just let you do whatever you like?”_

She had thought that, but not anymore.

“Mummy!”

The cry of a small child cut through her anger, slowing the furious beating of her heart and calming her shaking form.

_Adelaide?_

She turned towards that sound, as her breath slowed and her blood began to cool, and as she did so, she found Adelaide standing on the driveway not too far from her.

“Adelaide!” She called out to her from across the wide gulf that separated them. She was suddenly so much more aware of the distance between them, and so much more determined to close it.

She took one step, and then another, and another, until her legs were carrying her across that driveway without her even realising, her boots crunching against the gravel beneath her as she marched towards the girl who stood so awkwardly with her mass of frizzy ginger hair billowing in the wind.

Unsure, uncertain. Of course she would be. 

But Amelie wasn’t. She was determined in her mission, with her eyes set upon her goal. 

There were so many things she wanted to say to her. There were so many things she had to apologise for, so many regrets that she needed to lay bare. 

She had been waiting for this moment for so long, and now finally, she could tell her everything.

Tell her...tell her...

What, exactly?

She came to a stop in front of her, and crouched down so that her knees rested painfully on the gravel driveway, watching her with her emerald green eyes level with hers of grey.

What would she tell her? What could she possibly say that would make anything better between them? 

The uncertainty in Adelaide's eyes crept into her heart, doubt clouding her mind and threatening her conviction. She wanted to apologise, at least, but she didn’t know how. Her words failed her, escaping in a series of breaths that hitched against her rapidly closing throat.

Maker, she had thought of this moment for so long, ever since she had left Orlais all those months ago.

And now here she was, and no words would escape her lips.

Maker, perhaps she _should_ have gone with Cullen. Adelaide deserved better than her, anyway.

Cullen. _Cullen_.

Cullen!

Her mind travelled back to a moment at the palace, when the moons had been high in a sky of deepest sapphire, and the stars lit a path through its endless abyss. When words had failed Cullen and so he had abandoned them, showed her instead the words that he could not bring himself to say with an embrace and a kiss that had told her everything that she needed to know.

Perhaps she could do the same.

She would. She would do the same.

Before that doubt could creep back into her mind, before the moment passed and she lost her chance to do what she had to do, she acted. With one swoop of her arms, she brought to her chest, holding tighter than she had ever held her before as she rose to her feet with her cradled in her hold.

Andraste forgive her, it had been too long since she had held her like this.

But now that she held her, she never wanted to let go of her ever again.

Perhaps one day, she would have the courage to say what she meant to say, to apologise to those quivering grey eyes rather than to the bush of soft red hair that enveloped her face with a whisper that she surely never heard. 

Oh Maker, her hair was so soft.

She had forgotten how soft that hair was, how warm her skin could be, how small she felt in her arms. She would never forget again.

She never wanted to let go of her ever again.

She carried her into the carriage and closed the door onto the world, and kept her held in her arms for the long journey home, even as night came and those grey eyes shut out the darkness to lull Adelaide into a deep sleep.

She would never let go of her again.

Even as the world passed them by through the windows of her carriage, even as the night grew cold, and they huddled together for warmth beneath a thick woolen blanket, she did not let go.

Even as her mind began to wonder in the absence of Adelaide’s usual chatter, even as she pictured in her mind the words she could pour onto that parchment when they returned home, she did not let go.

It was only when they pulled up at her home, and a tired Amelie carried a sleeping Adelaide into her bed that she reluctantly let her go, the safety of her arms replaced by the embrace of her warm covers.

As she slept, Amelie thought of all of the things that she wanted to say to her, and one day, she would. But for now, she would let her sleep, and perhaps find some sleep herself.

She carried a candle out of her room, plunging her into darkness.

Sleep was threatening Amelie too, but she couldn’t give in just yet, couldn’t let the Fade overcome her as it had done to Adelaide.

There was something she had to do first.

With one hand holding the candle, and another rubbing the dust from her eyes, she retreated back down the stairs and found her favourite room in her house. The study, which she had filled with so many bookshelves that it was almost a library, and completely unrecognisable from the room her husband had worked in.

Good. She liked that.

It was still as she remembered, untouched by the shifting tides of this ever changing world she had found herself in.

That was a comfort in itself.

She sat herself down upon her desk, which had an uncomfortable wooden chair that creaked whenever she leant against the back of it. 

She leant her chin against her free hand, and with the other, placed the candle on her desk, next to a neat pile of parchment and a quill resting in a pot of ink.

In spite of the fatigue in her eyes, the ever encroaching darkness, the discomfort that her chair gave her, she picked that quill up and set it down upon the parchment where the words flowed out of her with ease.

_Dear Cullen,_

_I arrived at my parents home some hours ago, but I could not stay there. After everything, I found myself desperate to return home and write to you. _

_I forgot how insufferable they can be._

_I took Adelaide and came straight home, so I write to you now in the middle of the night, although the nights here at least are warmer than the ones in the South, so it is nowhere near as cold as it was on that balcony with you._

_Maker, but it was a beautiful night. I still think about that night, the moon, the stars, the warmth in your eyes. _

_I'll cherish those memories in your absence, until the day when we can meet again._

_I hope you’ve arrived at Skyhold safely, and I hope that the Maker continues to look out for you all as you embark on your perilous journey to the Western Approach. Please stay safe, and please look out for my brother, not just physically but–_

_You know what I mean, I hope, because I don’t really have the words for it._

_Maker, I think you’ve rubbed off on me._

_Make sure to tell me when you’re all home safe, not just because I am desperate to know if you will be coming home with my brother, but because I will be thinking of you all and praying for your safety._

_I hope the Maker brings you all back to use safe and well._

_Yours,_

_Amelie._

The letter was signed with a flick of her quill, and sealed with a drip of wax from her candle, before she placed it in the hallway to be sent at dawn, and retreated back upstairs with the candle now threatening to extinguish.

Then, she took herself to bed, blowing out that candle with a single breath that plunged her home into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew that took ages sorry! TL;DR but i moved house and just settled back into things! Also FYI it might be like this going in to the new year as it's the holiday season for me so I'll be busy doing lots of things. But...this chapter was super cute and emotional so i hope that was worth the wait!


	31. From the Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dust has long since settled on Adamant fortress, and a promise made at the closing of the Imperial Ball has yet to be fulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: this chapter is heavy on depression and PSTD, as well as mentions of Amelie's abusive parents again.
> 
> Ships not mentioned in the tags: Female Hawke x Anders is mentioned in this chapter (the reason it isn't tagged is because it comes up a whole like two times, if it comes up again I'll mention it in the notes)

Every morning since the Siege of Adamant, Lionel woke before the dawn.

It had become something of a routine now, to wake when the sky was still as black as the Abyssal Rift. 

As it should be. Not green, and endless, and marred by rocks that drifted timelessly through a murky sky.

Black, and filled with stars, as it should be.

It was a comforting sight, to one who had traversed the endless horrors of the Fade. It was a blessing to wake in the morning and see those stars, and know that another night in which the words of the Nightmare demon echoed through his mind, like a song that never ended, a chant that never came to its conclusion, was over.

But even as the sun rose, and the memories of his haunted dreams began to fade, those words lived on, incessant, endless, unending.

_They'll never forgive you for what you've done_.

The Nightmare had long since released its hold on his mind. His memories had returned, the Conclave, the hunt for his Uncle, the moment he had walked in on Corypheus' ritual as they searched desperately for an escape.

And yet, those words wouldn't leave him, his mind corrupted even as the demon’s grip upon him relinquished.

The days, at least, were kinder to him, when there were things to do, planning to be done. Even now, when there was no work to be done, he could pretend to be busy for long enough that he didn't even think about the Fade, the demon, the family he was still avoiding, about the man who’s scorn he was running from.

_They’ll never forgive you_ _for what you’ve done_.

But the nights were an endless abyss where the void in his heart lay raw and unending, and the memories of the Fade played out before him, of fear, and hopelessness, of that moment where escape had seemed so futile, and had come at the cost of man who was much greater than he would ever be.

Blood on his hands. In that moment, he had acted on impulse, as he always did. But now, his mind lingered upon that fateful choice, that moment when he had taken Ros Hawke to safety, and left Stroud to his fate.

_He had wanted to_, he told himself, but that didn’t quell the uncertainty in his heart, the doubt in his mind.

Nor did it drown out the echo of his last words.

_In death, sacrifice_.

It had been a cold end to a warm summer, and in its wake, lay a grey, miserable autumn that brought with it no relief from the horrors of Adamant.

There would be none, not for some time, not after everything. And all he could do was endure, as he always did, as he always had done.

_The dawn will come_, he would tell himself even in his dreams over and over again until a light sleep was broken by the appearance of a light on the horizon.

It always did come. It always would.

That was what he kept telling himself, every night since Adamant, and when it did he would rise from his bed as if nothing had happened, as if there was no demon clawing away at his mind, as if his entire body wasn’t aching with regret.

Then, he would carry on, as he always did, as he always had done. Get out of bed, and carry on.

As if nothing had happened.

But autumn brought with it days that were less busy, less chaotic, more boring, with every day that passed and every day where the days grew shorter, and the weather cooler.

Winter was only a few months away, and it would be long without anything to do, without people to talk to.

No one talked to him now, not beyond a greeting or an urgent message that was worth the risk of flaring his temper.

Nor did he speak to anyone else as he descended into the keep, and found the same seat that he had sat at every morning since they had returned from Emprise a week ago.

It was to be the last mission they were to undertake before the autumn; after the fallout from Adamant, he had been very keen to go straight away, not wait until the winter thawed.

But now he had nothing to do. In that week since their return, all he had managed to do was drag himself out of bed, and sit at the same table, in the same seat, to do nothing.

There was nothing else to do. Where was he going to go?

He couldn’t go to the library anymore, that was for certain, and for once, he had no work to catch up on.

There would be some, one day, but no one dared give him any right now.

He could go and see Abigail, of course. That would be what he’d normally do, particularly when he was feeling down. But even she had seemed to have grown tired of him, although that could have been his imagination.

But hadn’t everyone? He knew that he was particularly unfriendly when he was in a bad mood, when he didn’t sleep as he should, when the world seemed to grow darker and cooler around him and the glorious summer seemed now to be a distant memory.

It was no wonder most people avoided him. Except for Ros Hawke, of course, who was just as persistent as she always was. 

Every morning since he had returned, she walked past that same table, and saw him sat in that same chair, and she would ask him the same question.

“What’s up?” 

Every morning, he answered the same.

“Nothing.”

Normally, she would walk away, with a shrug and a roll of her eyes.

Not today. Today, she put her hands on her hips and watched him with brown eyes that bore into his soul.

“Then why do you look like shit?” She asked him plainly, as she sunk herself down into the other chair with a heavy sigh, with that mabari of hers perching next to her as it placed its drooling head upon her lap.

_Disgusting. _It was enough to put him off of his food, if he was ever intending on eating it.

“What do you want?” He asked her with an impatient tut and a shake of his head.

_Why was she even here? Hadn’t she realised that everyone else was keeping away?_

“You’ve looked like shit ever since you got back from Orlais,” she observed as she leant closer to him, studying him, scrutinising him. “I thought you were meant to be clearing your head after–”

“Yeah, that _was_ the plan,” he interrupted her before she could finish, before he had to hear what had happened come from her lips. 

He didn’t need a reminder. He could remember it as clear as day. 

“_I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore._” 

If only that trip _had_ helped to clear his head, to put distance between him and what had happened on that night in his room after their return from Adamant. But it hadn’t. If anything, it had only made it worse.

It had only shown him exactly what he was missing now that Dorian was gone.

Solas was nowhere near the companion that Dorian was. He had kept them all alive, sure, but there were no complaints about the cold, or Orlesians, or the copious amounts of Red Lyrium shards that burst out of every rock, every building, every damned Templar they came across.

And Maker, had he missed it. It was far more interesting than Solas’ lectures on the Fade, and his inane questions like: “_what it was like?_”or “_how did it feel_?” and all the other questions that seemed to have no point or no consequence, except to bring back memories that he’d rather forget. 

He never wanted to hear about the Fade again, never wanted to think about it again, never wanted to feel that sense of dread that had permeated every bone in his body ever again.

And yet, it was always there in his mind, the Fade, the fear, the voice.

_They’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done_.

Ros’ voice cut through the mire of those painful memories, while those warm brown eyes continued to stare right into his soul.

“You’re thinking about Adamant still, aren’t you?” She asked him with a low and solemn voice. “I don’t blame you, but–”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he interrupted her quickly, but she wasn’t going to listen.

She should know. She had been there. She should know how awful it had been.

Maker, she had almost met her death there.

Out of everyone, why would she want to talk about it?

“You heard what I said before, right?” She challenged him then, as he looked up to find her brown eyes staring wildly at him. “Never listen to a demon, or a spirit. All they do is lie, and twist the truth, until they get what they want and control you.”

He sighed heavily. Yes, he had heard her say it, in the camp outside Adamant when they had all awoken in the middle of the night after a tidal wave of fitful nightmares.

And Maker, had he tried to forget. But he just couldn’t seem to.

It was those words, those damned words spoken just before they broke free from the Nightmare’s domain.

_They’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done_.

And they hurt him so much because he knew it was true.

Jen would never forgive him, he knew that. That was why he was still here, why he’d broken his promise to his sisters, to Dorian, to himself.

None of them would forgive him now, least of all himself.

“I’m sure your mage boyfriend told you that before he dumped your skinny ass,” she said then with a shrug, but she may as well have plunged a knife straight into his heart.

He turned to her with venom in his eyes, eyes that shook and threatened to cloud with tears of anger, pain, regret.

She shrunk away from him, biting her lip as she did so. “Too soon, huh?” 

“You think?” He spat at her with a shake of his head, hoping that she would take that as her cue to leave.

That was what everyone else had done. This was why no one came near him anymore. He was too much like his father.

But Maker, was he irritated.

_Too soon?_ Of course it was too soon. It had hardly been…

Months. It had been months.

They had returned from Adamant months ago now, leaving for the desert when spring was reaching its climax and returning in the height of a glorious summer.

It had been months since he had been left in his room on that cool summer evening, months since he had last spoken to Dorian, since he had rushed off to Emprise to try desperately hard to shirk off the weight of his regret.

It hadn’t worked. All he could do now was remember.

It was his curse, to remember the words from that night. One which he deserved/

"_I know how it feels when you aren't ready, but I can't keep waiting on the sidelines for you to be."_

“So that’s your problem,” Ros said with a murmur of understanding and an ounce of pity. “Sweetheart, you can’t just sit here for the rest of your life thinking about what happened, you need to decide where to go next.”

“You think I haven’t tried?” he asked her with a sigh of frustration. “What, do you think I went to Orlais for fun?” He shook his head as he let out a disgruntled scoff. “I tried to move on, but–”

“Well, clearly it didn’t work, did it?” She asked him as she raised her right brow, the one with the scar that tore itself through its centre. “So what are you going to do about it?”

He furrowed his brow at her, his eyes narrowing as he studied the depths of her brown eyes. “What do you mean, “what am I going to do about it?””

What _was_ there to do about it? Dorian had been perfectly clear.

"_I would have given you everything, but I can't wait around any longer for you to do the same_."

“You know exactly what I mean,” she said to him with those piercing brown eyes. “You know what you have to do. So you can either go and do it, or sit around here all winter getting on our nerves.”

And he did. Go home.

That was what she was telling him.

Go home. Tell them. Put everything to rights.

Lose everything.

_They’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done_.

“It’s not that easy,” he said with a sigh as he stared down at the food he wasn’t going to eat. “You wouldn’t understand–”

“Wouldn’t I?” She asked him bluntly with a bite to her tone.

He had spoken without even thinking, without considering, without any thought to the pain that had now swelled in her eyes.

_Anders_.

She was strong, and fierce, but there was one thing that could make her drop her guard, that revealed the soft heart that lay beneath her tough exterior.

Anders. He didn’t know the full story, but he didn’t really want to either.

He knew they had been together, and now they weren’t. That was all he needed to know to know that his words had crossed a line.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her humbly. “That was uncalled for.”

“Yeah, it was,” she told him bluntly, in a way that only she could. “But you know what I did when needed to leave? I left.”

She scowled at him, and beneath her gaze, he burned a deep shade of red.

He appreciated her honest words, most of the time. She spoke more honestly than anyone else; where Vivienne and Josephine had only kind words, she had the truth, the bitter, cold, hard, truth. No matter how much it hurt. 

Sometimes it was what he needed. It was a relief to have someone, finally, who didn’t mince their words, who didn’t hold back because of who he was, his position, his titles, his family.

But Maker did she know how to make him feel ashamed.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t love him, nor that I don’t love him still,” she said quietly, while a hand found the top of her mabari’s head. “But sometimes, the best thing you can do is leave.”

Dorian had probably thought the same

“_I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore...I would have given you everything, but I can't wait around any longer for you to do the same_."

“I just...don’t know what to do,” he said with a sigh of resignation, of defeat, as he watched Ros’ fingers smooth the fur on her mabari’s head.

“Yes you do, you know exactly what you have to do,” Ros said then, in a way that made him feel even more ashamed.

It was true, he did know what he had to do.

The problem was, he just hadn’t done it.

“But what do you want to do?” She asked then, as he found the courage to raise his gaze to meet her own.

“I’m sorry?” He scoffed at her as he furrowed his brow.

What he _wanted_ had never been a priority, he had learnt that a long time ago.

“_I don’t want to marry her,_” he had said to his father, and it had been answered with a fit of rage, and a firm hand clutching onto his shoulder while he signed away his freedom.

“_I don’t want to go to the Conclave,_” he had said on a long distant winter morning, and yet, he had had no choice but to travel to a remote village on the other side of the world to observe a meeting that was tedious beyond comparison.

“_I just want to go home_,” he had said to Cassandra in a prison cell in Haven, and yet, they had called him a Herald of Andraste and forced him to work in their service.

What he wanted had never even been considered.

“What do you want to do?” She asked him again, this time with a shrug of her shoulders, as if it was the simplest question in the world.

But it wasn’t. 

He just wasn’t used to anyone asking him what he wanted.

There was nothing he wanted to do; he hadn’t wanted to do anything for a long time, and he certainly didn’t want to go home.

There had been a time when he had wanted to, back in those early days in Haven, no matter how much he may have told Amelie otherwise, or pretended that staying in Ferelden hadn’t hurt. 

No matter how much they had fought and argued, and on matter what had happened between them, he had wanted to be with his family again, he had wanted to go home.

He missed them, truly.

But something had kept him here, and although a good deal of it was his sense of duty, and that haunting memory of a future where he wasn’t here to save the world, part of the reason he was here was because of _him_.

Because he was happy with him, happier than he had ever been with Jennifer.

He had loved her, in the same way he loved his sisters. But not in the way a husband should love his wife, nor would he ever love her that way.

He knew that now. He knew that that was just who he was, and that that was OK.

_Thanks to him, it was all thanks to him_.

That's why he couldn't be with her, didn't _want_ to be with her. All noble marriages were superficial, but his even more so, because it hid who he really was, stifled him, strangled him, ate away at him like...

_Poison._

There was only one person he had ever been himself around, and he was lost to him.

That was who he wanted. Not Jennifer.

_Him._

So he spoke truthfully, in the way that she always did with him, speaking on a sharp exhalation of breath before he could hesitate, before he could hide it away like he did with everything else.

“I just want him back. But he won’t have me, not while…”

He sighed, wringing a hand through the tangles in his unkempt hair.

Dorian used to do that, he liked having his hair played with.

He cursed himself. Maker, he would never have let his hair look so messy before all of this. What had he become?

_Untidy_, his mother would say. His father would say _lazy_, with an extra dose of hatred in his tone, of course.

“Then you know what you have to do,” she said with a shrug, speaking as she always did, as if everything she suggested was the simplest thing in the world.

Perhaps it was, because he _did_ know what he had to do.

He just hadn’t done it. He just needed time.

Well, he had plenty of that now.

“Alright, you know what?” Ros said then with a sigh and a roll of her eyes. “You’re a competitive guy, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah, apparently,” he was of course, but he wasn’t going to admit that so easily.

“Yeah, people born in the month of Frostfall do tend to be,” she murmured beneath her breath with a thoughtful air, but as always, her musings went over his head. “You know what happens if you don’t sort this out, right?”

He sighed, as if he didn’t already know the answer. “What?”

“The Nightmare wins,” she shrugged at him, speaking as if the answer had been as plain as day. “Demons, spirits, they all seek to take control. It controlled your memories before, and you got them back, but now, it’s controlling your life.”

He turned to her with his frown deepening. 

There was a lot that he had expected her to say: “_You’ll be miserable for the rest of your life,_” or perhaps “_You’ll be a terrible person for doing that to your poor wife, you horrible man,_”.

But as always, she had to be different.

“What are you talking about?” 

“After all these months, what are you still doing?” She asked him as she pointed a finger at his chest. “Thinking on its words, that’s what. Sounds like it’s beaten you pretty badly.”

“Ros, we got of there, it’s over,” he reminded her with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head. “I don’t want to think about Adamant anymore...”

“Maybe we did,” she told him with those brown eyes fierce and steely as they peered into his soul. “And yet, here you are living your life by the words of a demon.”

“No,” he argued then, almost on instinct. “No I’m just–”

He stopped, as he looked down at the food he hadn’t eaten, ran his hands through the hair he hadn’t combed, looked up at the door to the library he didn’t dare enter.

And every day had been the same, every day he had sat at the same table, had barely eaten, had stared longingly at the entrance to the library.

It had won. She was right, it had won.

It had beaten him, broken him, taken everything away from him until he had nothing left, no one left.

“Like I said, you shouldn’t listen to spirits and demons,” she said then, mirroring the words she had said to him on the night after Adamant. “They just lie, and mess with you, and try to control you. That’s all they want.”

He turned to her with fire in his eyes, as words went unspoken upon unmoving lips.

_No. No one controls me, not anymore_.

They had done once. His father, his mother, Jennifer, sometimes. That was one of the reasons why he had resisted his sister’s attempts to bring him home. He had never known how it was to be in control of one's life. 

He had tried, Maker, had he tried. He had acted out, had drawn the ire of both his parents and Jennifer with his antics, his propensity to run away, to disappear when things got difficult. Because he had always been desperate for that sense of control over his own life, something he had never had until now.

When he ran away, he was in control, if only for a brief moment. When he took Ellie out on a long ride, and forgot everything that was happening, he was in control.

It was good, to be in a place where he was in control, where he could do as _he_ wanted.

And then, it was taken from him. 

The memory of the Nightmare controlled him, dictated to him every morning and every night, kept him shackled to this neverending limbo of having nothing to do and yet, not wanting to do anything.

It had ripped away the very thing he had fought so hard to gain, it had taken him away from that one moment of his life when he had finally been in control of his own destiny.

No. _No_.

How could he have allowed this for so long? How could he have let himself fall victim to the Nightmare’s will?

His freedom meant so much to him now that he had it, and yet, he had allowed it to slip away so easily.

Well, that demon would control him no more.

_"They’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done",_, the memory of the demon’s haunting voice taunted him once again.

And to that memory, he said: “_Then so be it._”

“You’re right,” he said to her, as the demon’s cry relented, crying out into an abyss that was now empty of anyone who would listen. "Maker's breath, you're right."

He saw the smile begin to spread across Ros' face, and to his surprise, he matched it with a smile of his own.

It almost hurt to smile again, it had been so long.

She'd be smug about this, he knew, she always was when someone told her she was right. But he didn't care.

His mind began to swim with a hundred different things he had to do _now_, right now.

_What did he want to do_? Well, he knew that now

He wanted to go home.

He had to plan, to prepare, to gather up a team and set off on another mission, another adventure. One that, this time, would take him not to the heart of Orlais or the rain soaked wilds of Ferelden, but to a place he should have gone long before. 

Home. He would be going home.

He needed to take back control, to wrestle the power away from that demon and take it for himself.

It was his life, he would have what _he _wanted.

He would go home, he would do what he had to do. Then, maybe, he would be reunited with the man he truly loved.

Maybe then, he would be free.

"Thank you Ros," he said to her as he launched himself out of his chair and brushed past, earning him a growl from the guard dog at her heel. "Thank you!"

He turned on the spot and hurried down to the other end of the keep. 

He needed to think, and he could think better when he was moving, pacing, marching across the keep.

Where he was going, he had no idea. He’d figure that out soon enough.

But for now, he was just thinking, his mind beginning to swarm with plans and ideas and hope, hope that it would not all be vain, hope that the pain of hurting Jennifer would lead him to what he wanted. 

_I’m sorry, Jen, but I just want him back._

Cullen watched him pass, his eyes flickering away from his reports for the briefest of seconds to acknowledge his presence, before turning back to his work while his free hand held a piece of toast in front of his face.

_Wait_.

He came to a stop in front of him, turning to him with a smile as he pressed his hands together in front of him.

Yes. Cullen. _Cullen_.

Cullen could help. He always helped.

Well, most of the time.

"Cullen!" He cried suddenly, turning to find the commander staring at him gormlessly with a piece of toast hovering in front of his mouth. 

His other hand moved to file the parchment away beneath a towering pile of report, but not before he could catch a glimpse of its contents.

_Oh Cullen, did you really think I wouldn't notice my sister's handwriting?_

He could come with him, perhaps. He knew Cullen would love to see Amelie again, and she’d be so happy if he turned up at her doorstep with Cullen next to him. It was nice to see them so happy, the smiles on their faces that otherwise were notably absent.

But he couldn't. He couldn’t go and see Amelie. He had to go home, and he couldn’t afford any distractions – after all, he was fully aware of how easily distracted he was. 

Besides, he couldn’t hide behind anyone else’s drama, not this time.

He had to go home, he couldn’t go and see his family, or his sisters.

Not even Claudette, not even after he had told her that she could come to Skyhold one day.

Another time, perhaps.

This was about him, and Jennifer, and doing what he should have done a long time ago.

"Yes, Inquisitor?" Cullen asked as he lowered the toast in his hand slowly, his eyes as wide as a nug caught in the path of a marksman.

"I’m going on a trip...home," he said then with a bite of his lip. It hurt him not to invite him along, it really did. "Can you arrange for...whatever it is that you normally do? Soldiers and guards, and maybe someone to supervise it.”

"Yeah, I um…" he said with that wrinkle of his nose he does when he is thinking. Perhaps he was thinking of offering himself. Oh Maker, that would be embarrassing. "I don't have anything planned for Rylen so, he can come with some soldiers..."

"Great!" He said with a triumphant clap of his hands, as he turned on the spot and began his march towards his next target.

Vivienne. He always took Vivienne. 

She was always so kind to him, so supportive, and like Ros Hawke, she wasn’t afraid to tell him some uncomfortable truths when he needed them, and he was presuming he _would_ need them.

But as he approached the doorway that led towards Solas' rotunda, he was reminded of all of those times he had taken this path to see someone else. 

It would be so easy for him to carry on through those doors and ascend the stairs that led to the library.

So easy. He had done it so many times before.

But Dorian didn't want to see him, and what would he even say to him? 

_Sorry about all those times I said I’d go home and then didn’t, but I actually, truly am going home now, promise._

He wouldn’t believe him. Why should he, when he had promised to so many times before and never delivered?

No, there was nothing he could say, not now, not until he was truly free to give him what he wanted, what he needed.

It was best not to. 

"_I would have given you everything, but I can't wait around any longer for you to do the same_."

He turned away, towards the staircase that led to the spot that Vivienne had made her own. But out of the corner of his eyes, he could still see Cullen, reading his letter again while he picked his way through his breakfast.

They were so cute, with their secret letters that weren’t so secret.

_Letters_.

Their romance had started with a letter. He remembered what Amelie had told him at the palace, about the letter she had left him, how she had told him everything she couldn’t tell him in person.

_Thank you Amy, I owe you for this_.

He turned, running towards the far end of the keep with a new goal in mind, a new purpose.

Parchment. He needed parchment. 

He had a letter to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok first of all to business: this is going to be a rare/one off POV change we are not changing POV full time lol. Just in case anyone was going to ask (I just like to throw you all off hehe)
> 
> Other than that hope you liked it and i know it's been aaages since the last one, but the holiday season is always busy for me. Hopefully updates will be quicker again now we're in the new year!
> 
> Happy 2021 everyone and i hope the year is kind to you all ❤


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